the:  laocoon  group 


LAOKOON 

Vatican,  Rome 


THE  UNIVERSITY  PRINTS 
BOSTON 


LAOCOON. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016  with  funding  from 
Getty  Research  Institute 


https://archive.org/details/laocoonessayuponOOIess_O 


Laocoon. 


&ji  <£ssap  upon  t&e  Limits  of  Painting  anti  Poetrp. 

WITH  REMARKS  ILLUSTRATIVE  OF  VARIOUS  POINTS  IN 
THE  HISTORY  OF  ANCIENT  ART. 


BY 

GOTTHOLD  EPHRAIM  LESSING. 

TRANSLATED  BY  ELLEN  FROTHINGHAM. 


BOSTON: 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 
1910. 


Entered  according  to  Act  at  Congress,  in  the  year  187s,  by 
ROBERTS  BROTHERS, 

In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  ol  Congress,  at  Washington. 


University  Press: 

John  Wilson  & Son,  Cambridge. 


TRANSLATOR’S  PREFACE. 


— ♦ — 

A translation  of  the  Laocoon  was  given  to 
the  English  public  by  E.  C.  Beasley,  one  of  the 
tutors  of  Leamington  College,  in  1853.  Very 
few  copies  found  their  way  to  America,  and  the 
book  is  now  difficult  to  obtain. 

The  desire  of  the  present  translator  has 
been  to  make  a version  which  could  be  easily 
read  by  persons  ignorant  of  any  language  save 
English.  To  this  end  an  attempt  was  made  to 
banish  all  foreign  languages  from  the  text,  and 
substitute  for  the  original  quotations  their  equiv- 
alents, as  near  as  possible,  in  English.  This 
method  was  found,  however,  on  trial,  to  be  incom- 
patible with  the  closeness  of  Lessing’s  criti- 
cism, depending,  as  that  in  many  cases  does, 
on  the  shade  of  meaning  of  the  original  word. 
For  the  sake  of  consistency,  therefore,  Lessing’s 
method  has  been  adhered  to  in  every  instance ; 
the  words  of  the  author  cited  being  retained  in 


vi  translator's  preface. 

the  text,  and  a translation  given  in  a foot-note 
wherever  the  meaning  was  not  sufficiently  indi- 
cated by  the  context.  The  same  course  has 
been  pursued  with  the  modern  as  with  the 
ancient  languages. 

Dryden’s  translation  of  Virgil  has  been  used 
throughout,  and  Bryant’s  of  Homer  in  every 
case  but  one,  where  a quotation  from  the  ^Eneid 
and  the  Odyssey  stood  in  close  connection.  In 
this  single  instance  Pope’s  version  was  pre- 
ferred; his  style  being  more  in  harmony  with 
that  of  Dryden,  and  his  want  of  literalness 
being  here  not  objectionable. 

Such  notes  as  were  not  necessary  to  the 
understanding  of  the  text  have  been  transferred 
to  the  end  of  the  book. 

The  translator  would  here  acknowledge  the 
valuable  assistance  received  from  Mr.  W.  T. 
Brigham  in  the  rendering  of  quotations  from 
the  classics. 

Ellen  Frothingham. 

Boston,  June,  1873. 


PREFACE. 


The  first  who  compared  painting  with  poetry 
was  a man  of  fine  feeling,  who  was  conscious 
of  a similar  effect  produced  on  himself  by  both 
arts.  Both,  he  perceived,  represent  absent  things 
as  present,  give  us  the  appearance  as  the  real- 
ity. Both  produce  illusion,  and  the  illusion  of 
both  is  pleasing. 

A second  sought  to  analyze  the  nature  of  this 
pleasure,  and  found  its  source  to  be  in  both  cases 
the  same.  Beauty,  our  first  idea  of  which  is 
derived  from  corporeal  objects,  has  universal 
laws  which  admit  of  wide  application.  They 
may  be  extended  to  actions  and  thoughts  as 
well  as  to  forms. 

A third,  pondering  upon  the  value  and  dis- 
tribution of  these  laws,  found  that  some  obtained 
more  in  painting,  others  in  poetry:  that  in 
regard  to  the  latter,  therefore,  poetry  can  come 


vm 


PREFACE. 


to  the  aid  of  painting ; in  regard  to  the  former, 
painting  to  the  aid  of  poetry,  by  illustration 
and  example. 

The  first  was  the  amateur;  the  second,  the 
philosopher ; the  third*  the  critic. 

The  first  two  could  not  well  make  a false  use 
of  their  feeling  or  their  conclusions,  whereas 
with  the  critic  all  depends  on  the  right  applica- 
tion of  his  principles  in  particular  cases.  And, 
since  there  are  fifty  ingenious  critics  to  one  of 
penetration,  it  would  be  a wonder  if  the  appli- 
cation were,  in  every  case,  made  with  the  cau- 
tion indispensable  to  an  exact  adjustment  of  the 
scales  between  the  two  arts. 

If  Apelles  and  Protogenes,  in  their  lost  works 
on  painting,  fixed  and  illustrated  its  rules  from 
the  already  established  laws  of  poetry,  we  may 
be  sure  they  did  so  with  the  same  moderation 
and  exactness  with  which  Aristotle,  Cicero,  Hor- 
ace, and  Quintilian,  in  their  still  existing  writ- 
ings, apply  the  principles  and  experiences  of 
painting  to  eloquence  and  poetry.  It  is  the 
prerogative  of  the  ancients  in  nothing  either  to 
exceed  or  fall  short. 

But  we  moderns  have  in  many  cases  thought 
to  surpass  the  ancients  by  transforming  their 
pleasure-paths  into  highways,  though  at  the  risk 


PREFACE. 


LX 


of  reducing  the  shorter  and  safer  highways  to 
such  paths  as  lead  through  deserts. 

The  dazzling  antithesis  of  the  Greek  Voltaire, 
that  painting  is  dumb  poetry,  and  poetry  speak- 
ing painting,  stood  in  no  text-book.  It  was  one 
of  those  conceits,  occurring  frequently  in  Simon- 
ides, the  inexactness  and  falsity  of  which  we 
feel  constrained  to  overlook  for  the  sake  of  the 
evident  truth  they  contain. 

The  ancients,  however,  did  not  overlook  them. 
They  confined  the  saying  of  Simonides  to  the 
effect  produced  by  the  two  arts,  not  failing 
to  lay  stress  upon  the  fact  that,  notwithstand- 
ing the  perfect  similarity  of  their  effects,  the 
arts  themselves  differ  both  in  the  objects  and  in 
the  methods  of  their  imitation,  vXy  xul  zgonoig 

[U[irj62G)g. 

But,  as  if  no  such  difference  existed,  many 
modern  critics  have  drawn  the  crudest  conclu- 
sions possible  from  this  agreement  between 
painting  and  poetry.  At  one  time  they  confine 
poetry  within  the  narrower  limits  of  painting, 
and  at  another  allow  painting  to  fill  the  whole 
wide  sphere  of  poetry.  Whatever  is  right  in 
one  must  be  permitted  to  the  other ; whatever 
pleases  or  displeases  in  one  is  necessarily  pleas- 
ing or  displeasing  in  the  other.  Full  of  this 


X 


PREFACE. 


idea  they,  with  great  assurance,  give  utterance 
to  the  shallowest  judgments,  whenever  they  find 
that  poet  and  painter  have  treated  the  same 
subject  in  a different  way.  Such  variations 
they  take  to  be  faults,  and  charge  them  on 
painter  or  poet,  according  as  their  taste  more 
inclines  to  the  one  art  or  the  other. 

This  fault-finding  criticism  has  partially  mis- 
led the  virtuosos  themselves.  In  poetry,  a fond- 
ness for  description,  and  in  painting,  a fancy  for 
allegory,  has  arisen  from  the  desire  to  make  the 
one  a speaking  picture  without  really  knowing 
what  it  can  and  ought  to  paint,  and  the  other  a 
dumb  poem,  without  having  considered  in  how 
far  painting  can  express  universal  ideas  without 
abandoning  its  proper  sphere  and  degenerating 
into  an  arbitrary  method  of  writing. 

To  combat  that  false  taste  and  those  ill- 
grounded  criticisms  is  the  chief  object  of  the 
following  chapters.  Their  origin  was  accidental, 
and  in  their  growth  they  have  rather  followed 
the  course  of  my  reading  than  been  systemati- 
cally developed  from  general  principles.  They 
are,  therefore,  not  so  much  a book  as  irregular 
collectanea  for  one. 

Yet  I flatter  myself  that,  even  in  this  form, 
they  will  not  be  wholly  without  value.  We 


PREFACE. 


XI 


Germans  suffer  from  no  lack  of  systematic  books. 
No  nation  in  the  world  surpasses  us  in  the  fac- 
ulty of  deducing  from  a couple  of  definitions 
whatever  conclusions  we  please,  in  most  fair  and 
logical  order. 

Baumgarten  acknowledged  that  he  was  in- 
debted to  Gesner’s  dictionary  for  a large  propor- 
tion of  the  examples  in  his  “./Esthetics.”  If 
my  reasoning  be  less  close  than  that  of  Baum- 
garten, my  examples  will,  at  least,  savor  more  of 
the  fountain. 

Since  I made  the  Laocoon  my  point  of  depart- 
ure, and  return  to  it  more  than  once  in  the 
course  of  my  essay,  I wished  him  to  have  a share 
in  the  title-page.  Other  slight  digressions  on 
various  points  in  the  history  of  ancient  art, 
contribute  less  to  the  general  design  of  my  work, 
and  have  been  retained  only  because  I never  can 
hope  to  find  a better  place  for  them. 

Further,  I would  state  that,  under  the  name 
of  painting,  I include  the  plastic  arts  generally ; 
as,  under  that  of  poetry,  I may  have  allowed 
myself  sometimes  to  embrace  those  other  arts, 
whose  imitation  is  progressive. 


LAO  CO  ON. 


♦ 


L 


The  chief  and  universal  characteristic  of  the  Greek 
masterpieces  in  painting  and  sculpture  consists, 
according  to  Winkelmann,  in  a noble  simplicity 
and  quiet  grandeur,  both  of  attitude  and  expression. 
“ As  the  depths  of  the  sea,”  he  says,1  “ remain  al- 
ways at  rest,  however  the  surface  may  be  agitated, 
so  the  expression  in  the  figures  of  the  Greeks  re- 
veals in  the  midst  of  passion  a great  and  steadfast 
soul.” 

“ Such  a soul  is  depicted  in  the  countenance  of 
the  Laocoon,  under  sufferings  the  most  intense. 
Nor  is  it  depicted  in  the  countenance  only:  the 
agony  betrayed  in  every  nerve  and  muscle,  — we 
almost  fancy  we  could  detect  it  in  the  painful  con- 
traction of  the  abdomen  alone,  without  looking  at 
the  face  and  other  parts  of  the  body,  — this  agony, 
I say,  is  yet  expressed  with  no  violence  in  the  face 
and  attitude.  He  raises  no  terrible  cry,  as  Virgil 
sings  of  his  Laocoon.  This  would  not  be  possi- 
ble, from  the  opening  of  the  mouth,  which  denotes 

1 Von  der  Nachahmung  der  griechischen  Vferke  in  del 
Malerei  und  Bildhauerkunst,  p.  21,  22. 

1 


2 


LAOCOON. 


rather  an  anxious  and  oppressed  sigh,  as  descrilied 
by  Sadolet.  Bodily  anguish  and  moral  greatness 
are  diffused  in  equal  measure  through  the  whole 
structure  of  the  figure ; being,  as  it  were,  balanced 
against  each  other.  Laocoon  suffers,  but  he  suffers 
like  the  Philoctetes  of  Sophocles.  His  sufferings 
pierce  us  to  the  soul,  but  we  are  tempted  to  envy 
the  great  man  his  power  of  endurance.” 

“To  express  so  noble  a soul  far  outruns  the 
constructive  art  of  natural  beauty.  The  artist  must 
have  felt  within  himself  the  mental  greatness  which 
he  has  impressed  upon  his  marble.  Greece  united 
in  one  person  artist  and  philosopher,  and  had 
more  than  one  Metrodorus.  Wisdom  joined  hands 
with  art  and  inspired  its  figures  with  more  than 
ordinary  souls.” 

The  remark  which  lies  at  the  root  of  this  criti- 
cism — that  suffering  is  not  expressed  in  the  coun- 
tenance of  Laocoon  with  the  intensity  which  its 
violence  would  lead  us  to  expect  — is  perfectly 
just.  That  this  very  point,  where  a shallow  observer 
would  judge  the  artist  to  have  fallen  short  of  nature 
and  not  to  have  attained  the  true  pathos  of  suffer- 
ing, furnishes  the  clearest  proof  of  his  wisdom,  is 
also  unquestionable.  But  in  the  reason  which  Wink- 
elmann  assigns  for  this  wisdom,  and  the  universality 
of  the  rule  which  he  deduces  from  it,  I venture  to 
differ  from  him. 

His  depreciatory  allusion  to  Virgil  was,  I confess, 
the  first  thing  that  aroused  my  doubts,  and  the 
second  was  his  comparison  of  Laocoon  with  Philoc* 


LAOCOON. 


3 


tetes.  Using  these  as  my  starting-points,  I shall 
proceed  to  write  down  my  thoughts  in  the  order  in 
which  they  have  occurred  to  me. 

“ Laocoon  suffers  like  the  Philoctetes  of  Sopho- 
cles.” How  does  Philoctetes  suffer  ? Strange  that 
his  sufferings  have  left  such  different  impressions 
upon  our  minds.  The  complaints,  the  screams,  the 
wild  imprecations  with  which  his  pain  filled  the 
camp,  interrupting  the  sacrifices  and  all  offices  of 
religion,  resounded  not  less  terribly  through  the 
desert  island  to  which  they  had  been  the  cause  of 
his  banishment.  Nor  did  the  poet  hesitate  to  make 
the  theatre  ring  with  the  imitation  of  these  tones 
of  rage,  pain,  and  despair. 

The  third  act  of  this  play  has  been  regarded  as 
much  shorter  than  the  others.  A proof,  say  the 
critics,1  that  the  ancients  attached  little  importance 
to  the  equal  length  of  the  acts.  I agree  with  their 
conclusion,  but  should  choose  some  other  example 
in  support  of  it.  The  cries  of  pain,  the  moans,  the 
broken  exclamations,  a,  a/  qpev  / arraraT/  ot>  juoj, 
fioi/  the  TtaTtal , nancd!  filling  whole  lines,  of  which 
this  act  is  made  up,  would  naturally  require  to  be 
prolonged  in  the  delivery  and  interrupted  by  more 
frequent  pauses  than  a connected  discourse.  In  the 
representation,  therefore,  this  third  act  must  have 
occupied  about  as  much  time  as  the  others.  It 
seems  shorter  on  paper  to  the  reader  than  it  did 
to  the  spectator  in  the  theatre. 

A cry  is  the  natural  expression  of  bodily  pain, 
1 Brumoy  The&t.  des  Grecs,  T.  ii.  p.  89. 


4 


LAOCOON. 


Homer’s  wounded  heroes  not  infrequently  fall  with  a 
cry  to  the  ground.  Venus  screams  aloud 1 at  a 
scratch,  not  as  being  the  tender  goddess  of  love, 
but  because  suffering  nature  will  have  its  rights. 
Even  the  iron  Mars,  on  feeling  the  lance  of  Dio- 
medes,  bellows  as  frightfully  as  if  ten  thousand  rag- 
ing warriors  were  roaring  at  once,  and  fills  both 
armies  with  terror.2 

High  as  Homer  exalts  his  heroes  in  other  respects 
above  human  nature,  they  yet  remain  true  to  it  in 
their  sensitiveness  to  pain  and  injuries  and  in  the 
expression  of  their  feelings  by  cries  or  tears  or 
revilings.  Judged  by  their  deeds  they  are  creatures 
of  a higher  order ; in  their  feelings  they  are  genuine 
human  beings. 

We  finer  Europeans  of  a wiser  posterity  have,  I 
know,  more  control  over  our  lips  and  eyes.  Cour- 
tesy and  decency  forbid  cries  and  tears.  We  have 
exchanged  the  active  bravery  of  the  first  rude  ages 
for  a passive  courage.  Yet  even  our  ancestors  were 
greater  in  the  latter  than  the  former.  But  our  ances- 
tors were  barbarians.  To  stifle  all  signs  of  pain,  to 
meet  the  stroke  of  death  with  unaverted  eye,  to  die 
laughing  under  the  adder’s  sting,  to  weep  neither  over 
our  own  sins  nor  at  the  loss  of  the  dearest  of  friends, 
are  traits  of  the  old  northern  heroism.8  The  law 
given  by  Palnatoko  to  the  Jomsburghers  was  to  fear 
nothing,  nor  even  to  name  the  word  fear. 

1 Iliad  v.  343.  *H  6h  fteya  laxovaa, 

2 Iliad  v.  859. 

3 Th.  Bartholinus.  De  Causis  contemptae  a Danis  adhae 
Gentilibus  Mortis,  cap.  x. 


LAOCOON. 


5 


Not  so  the  Greek.  lie  felt  and  feared.  He 
expressed  his  pain  and  his  grief.  He  was  ashamed 
of  no  human  weakness,  yet  allowed  none  to  hold 
him  back  from  the  pursuit  of  honor  or  the  perform- 
ance of  a duty.  Principle  wrought  in  him  what 
savageness  and  hardness  developed  in  the  barba- 
rian. Greek  heroism  was  like  the  spark  hidden  in 
the  pebble,  which  sleeps  till  roused  by  some  out- 
ward force,  and  takes  from  the  stone  neither  clear- 
ness nor  coldness.  The  heroism  of  the  barbarian 
was  a bright,  devouring  flame,  ever  raging,  and 
blackening,  if  not  consuming,  every  other  good 
quality. 

When  Homer  makes  the  Trojans  advance  to  battle 
with  wild  cries,  while  the  Greeks  march  in  reso- 
lute silence,  the  commentators  very  justly  observe 
that  the  poet  means  by  this  distinction  to  charac- 
terize the  one  as  an  army  of  barbarians,  the  other  of 
civilized  men.  I am  surprised  they  have  not  per- 
ceived a similar  characteristic  difference  in  another 
passage.1 

The  opposing  armies  have  agreed  upon  an  armis- 
tice, and  are  occupied,  not  without  hot  tears  on  both 
sides  (daxQva  with  the  burning  of 

their  dead.  But  Priam  forbids  his  Trojans  to  weep 
(ovd’  s’tcc  xlaiuv  IlytafAog  psyag),  “and  for  this  rea- 
son,” says  Madame  Dacier  ; “ he  feared  they  might 
become  too  tender-hearted,  and  return  with  less 
spirit  to  the  morrow’s  fight.”  Good;  but  I would 
ask  why  Priam  alone  should  apprehend  this.  Why 

1 Iliad  vii.  42  l 


6 


LAOCOON. 


does  not  Agamemnon  issue  the  same  command  to 
his  Greeks  ? The  poet  has  a deeper  meaning.  He 
would  show  us  that  only  the  civilized  Greek  can 
weep  and  yet  be  brave,  while  the  uncivilized  Trojan, 
to  be  brave,  must  stifle  all  humanity.  I am  in  no 
wise  ashamed  to  weep  (NefisGGwpocl  ys  psv  ovdsv 
xlaieiv),  he  elsewhere1  makes  the  prudent  son  of 
wise  Nestor  say. 

It  is  worthy  of  notice  that,  among  the  few  trage- 
dies which  have  come  down  to  us  from  antiquity, 
there  should  be  two  in  which  bodily  pain  constitutes 
not  the  least  part  of  the  hero’s  misfortunes.  Besides 
Philoctetes  we  have  the  dying  Hercules,  whom  also 
Sophocles  represents  as  wailing,  moaning,  weeping, 
and  screaming.  Thanks  to  our  well-mannered  neigh- 
bors, those  masters  of  propriety,  a whimpering  Phil- 
octetes or  a screaming  Hercules  would  now  be 
ridiculous  and  not  tolerated  upon  the  stage.  One 
of  their  latest  poets,2  indeed,  has  ventured  upon  a 
Philoctetes,  but  he  seems  not  to  have  dared  to  show 
him  in  his  true  character. 

Among  the  lost  works  of  Sophocles  was  a Laoc- 
oon.  If  fate  had  but  spared  it  to  us ! From  the 
slight  references  to  the  piece  in  some  of  the  old 
grammarians,  we  cannot  determine  how  the  poet 
treated  his  subject.  Of  one  thing  I am  convinced, — 
that  he  would  not  have  made  his  Laocoon  more  of  a 
Stoic  than  Philoctetes  and  Hercules.  Every  thing 
stoical  is  untheatrical.  Our  sympathy  is  always 
proportionate  with  the  suffering  expressed  by  the 
1 Odyssey  iv.  195.  2 Chateaubrun. 


LAOCOON. 


7 


object  of  our  interest.  If  we  behold  him  bearing 
his  misery  with  magnanimity,  our  admiration  is 
excited ; but  admiration  is  a cold  sentiment,  wherein 
barren  wonder  excludes  not  only  every  warmer  emo- 
tion, but  all  vivid  personal  conception  of  the  suf- 
fering. 

I come  now  to  my  conclusion.  If  it  be  true  that 
a cry,  as  an  expression  of  bodily  pain,  is  not  incon- 
sistent with  nobility  of  soul,  especially  according  to 
the  views  of  the  ancient  Greeks,  then  the  desire  to 
represent  such  a soul  cannot  be  the  reason  why  the 
artist  has  refused  to  imitate  this  cry  in  his  marble. 
He  must  have  had  some  other  reason  for  deviating 
in  this  respect  from  his  rival,  the  poet,  who  expresses 
it  with  deliberate  intention. 


s 


LAOCOON. 


II. 

Be  it  truth  or  fable  that  Love  made  the  first  attempt 
in  the  imitative  arts,  thus  much  is  certain : that  she 
never  tired  of  guiding  the  hand  of  the  great  masters 
of  antiquity.  For  although  painting,  as  the  art 
which  reproduces  objects  upon  flat  surfaces,  is  now 
practised  in  the  broadest  sense  of  that  definition, 
yet  the  wise  Greek  set  much  narrower  bounds  to  it. 
He  confined  it  strictly  to  the  imitation  of  beauty. 
The  Greek  artist  represented  nothing  that  was  not 
beautiful.  Even  the  vulgarly  beautiful,  the  beauty 
of  inferior  types,  he  copied  only  incidentally  for 
practice  or  recreation.  The  perfection  of  the  sub- 
ject must  charm  in  his  work.  He  was  too  great 
to  require  the  beholders  to  be  satisfied  with  the 
mere  barren  pleasure  arising  from  a successful  like- 
ness or  from  consideration  of  the  artist’s  skill.  Noth- 
ing in  his  art  was  dearer  to  him  or  seemed  to  him 
more  noble  than  the  ends  of  art. 

“ Who  would  want  to  paint  you  when  no  one  wants 
to  look  at  you  ? ” says  an  old  epigrammatist 1 to  a mis- 
shapen man.  Many  a modern  artist  would  say,  “No 
matter  how  misshapen  you  are,  I will  paint  you. 
Though  people  may  not  like  to  look  at  you,  they 
will  be  glad  to  look  at  my  picture ; not  as  a portrait 

1 See  Appendix,  note  i. 


LAOCOON.  9 

ot  you,  but  as  a proof  of  my  skill  in  making  so 
close  a copy  of  such  a monster.” 

The  fondness  for  making  a display  with  mere 
manual  dexterity,  ennobled  by  no  worth  in  the  sub- 
ject, is  too  natural  not  to  have  produced  among  the 
Greeks  a Pauson  and  a Pyreicus.  They  had  such 
painters,  but  meted  out  to  them  strict  justice.  Pau- 
son, who  confined  himself  to  the  beauties  of  ordi- 
nary nature,  and  whose  depraved  taste  liked  best 
to  represent  the  imperfections  and  deformities  of 
humanity,1  lived  in  the  most  abandoned  poverty;2 * 
and  Pyreicus,  who  painted  barbers’  rooms,  dirty 
workshops,  donkeys,  and  kitchen  herbs,  with  all  the 
diligence  of  a Dutch  painter,  as  if  such  things  were 
rare  or  attractive  in  nature,  acquired  the  surname  of 
Rhyparographer,8  the  dirt-painter.  The  rich  voluptu- 
aries, indeed,  paid  for  his  works  their  weight  in  gold, 
as  if  by  this  fictitious  valuation  to  atone  for  their  in- 
significance. 

Even  the  magistrates  considered  this  subject  a 
matter  worthy  their  attention,  and  confined  the 
artist  by  force  within  his  proper  sphere.  The  law 
of  the  Thebans  commanding  him  to  make  his  copies 
more  beautiful  than  the  originals,  and  never  under 
pain  of  punishment  less  so,  is  well  known.  This 
was  no  law  against  bunglers,  as  has  been  supposed 
by  critics  generally,  and  even  by  Junius  himself,4 

1 See  Appendix,  note  2. 

2 Aristophanes,  Plut.  v.  602  et  Acharnens.  v.  854. 

* Plinius,  lib.  xxx.  sect.  37. 

* De  Pictura  vet.  lib.  ii.  cap.  iv,  sect.  1. 


10 


LA0C00N. 


but  was  aimed  against  the  Greek  Ghezzi,  and  con- 
demned the  unworthy  artifice  of  obtaining  a likeness 
by  exaggerating  the  deformities  of  the  model.  It 
was,  in  fact,  a law  against  caricature. 

From  this  same  conception  of  the  beautiful  came 
the  law  of  the  Olympic  judges.  Every  conqueror  in 
the  Olympic  games  received  a statue,  but  a portrait- 
statue  was  erected  only  to  him  who  had  been  thrice 
victor.1  Too  many  indifferent  portraits  were  not 
allowed  among  works  of  art.  For  although  a por- 
trait admits  of  being  idealized,  yet  the  likeness  should 
predominate.  It  is  the  ideal  of  a particular  person, 
not  the  ideal  of  humanity. 

We  laugh  when  we  read  that  the  very  arts  among 
the  ancients  were  subject  to  the  control  of  civil  law ; 
but  we  have  no  right  to  laugh.  Laws  should  un- 
questionably usurp  no  sway  over  science,  for  the 
object  of  science  is  truth.  Truth  is  a necessity  of 
the  soul,  and  to  put  any  restraint  upon  the  gratifica- 
tion of  this  essential  want  is  tyranny.  The  object 
of  art,  on  the  contrary,  is  pleasure,  and  pleasure  is 
not  indispensable.  What  kind  and  what  degree  of 
pleasure  shall  be  permitted  may  justly  depend  on 
the  law-giver. 

The  plastic  arts  especially,  besides  the  inevitable 
influence  which  they  exercise  on  the  character  of  a 
nation,  have  power  to  work  one  effect  which  demands 
the  careful  attention  of  the  law.  Beautiful  statues 
fashioned  from  beautiful  men  reacted  upon  their 
creators,  and  the  state  was  indebted  for  its  beautiful 

1 Plinius,  lib.  xxxiv.  sect.  9. 


LAOCOON. 


II 


men  to  beautiful  statues.  With  us  the  susceptible 
imagination  of  the  mother  seems  to  express  itself 
only  in  monsters. 

From  this  point  of  view  I think  I detect  a truth  in 
certain  old  stories  which  have  been  rejected  as  fables. 
The  mothers  of  Aristomenes,  of  Aristodamas,  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  Scipio,  Augustus,  and  Gal- 
erius,  each  dreamed  during  pregnancy  that  she  was 
visited  by  a serpent.  The  serpent  was  an  emblem  of 
divinity.1  Without  it  Bacchus,  Apollo,  Mercury,  and 
Hercules  were  seldom  represented  in  their  beautiful 
pictures  and  statues.  These  honorable  women  had 
been  feasting  their  eyes  upon  the  god  during  the 
day,  and  the  bewildering  dream  suggested  to  them 
the  image  of  the  snake.  Thus  I vindicate  the 
dream,  and  show  up  the  explanation  given  by  the 
pride  of  their  sons  and  by  unblushing  flattery.  For 
there  must  have  been  some  reason  for  the  adulterous 
fancy  always  taking  the  form  of  a serpent. 

But  I am  wandering  from  my  purpose,  which  was 
simply  to  prove  that  among  the  ancients  beauty  was 
the  supreme  law  of  the  imitative  arts.  This  being 
established,  it  follows  necessarily  that  whatever  else 
these  arts  may  aim  at  must  give  way  completely  if 
incompatible  with  beauty,  and,  if  compatible,  must  at 
least  be  secondary  to  it. 

I will  confine  myself  wholly  to  expression.  There 
are  passions  and  degrees  of  passion  whose  expres- 
sion produces  the  most  hideous  contortions  of  the 
face,  and  throws  the  whole  body  into  such  unnatural 

1 See  Appendix,  note  3. 


12 


LAOCOON. 


positions  as  to  destroy  all  the  beautiful  lines  that 
mark  it  when  in  a state  of  greater  repose.  These 
passions  the  old  artists  either  refrained  altogether 
from  representing,  or  softened  into  emotions  which 
were  capable  of  being  expressed  with  some  degree 
of  beauty. 

Rage  and  despair  disfigured  none  of  their  works. 
I venture  to  maintain  that  they  never  represented 
a fury.1  Wrath  they  tempered  into  severity.  In 
poetry  we  have  the  wrathful  Jupiter,  who  hurls  the 
thunderbolt ; in  art  he  is  simply  the  austere. 

Anguish  was  softened  into  sadness.  Where  that 
was  impossible,  and  where  the  representation  of  in- 
tense grief  would  belittle  as  well  as  disfigure,  how 
did  Timanthes  manage  ? There  is  a well-known 
picture  by  him  of  the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia,  wherein 
he  gives  to  the  countenance  of  every  spectator  a 
fitting  degree  of  sadness,  but  veils  the  face  of  the 
father,  on  which  should  have  been  depicted  the  most 
intense  suffering.  This  has  been  the  subject  of 
many  petty  criticisms.  “ The  artist,”  says  one,2 
“had  so  exhausted  himself  in  representations  of 
sadness  that  he  despaired  of  depicting  the  father’s 
face  worthily.”  “ He  hereby  confessed,”  says  an- 
other,8 “ that  the  bitterness  of  extreme  grief  cannot 

1 See  Appendix,  note  4. 

2 Plinius,  lib.  xxxv.  sect.  35.  Cum  mcestos  pinxisset  omnes, 
praecipue  patruum,  et  tristitiae  omnem  imaginem  consump- 
sisset,  patris  ipsius  vultum  velavit,  quem  digne  non  poterat 
ostendere. 

3 Valerius  Maximus,  lib.  viii.  cap.  2.  Summi  in  aero  rig 
acerbitatem  arte  expriini  non  posse  confessus  est. 


LAOCOON. 


13 


be  expressed  by  art.”  I,  for  my  pa/t,  see  in  this  no 
proof  of  incapacity  in  the  artist  or  his  art.  In  pro- 
portion to  the  intensity  of  feeling,  the  expression  of 
the  features  is  intensified,  and  nothing  is  easier  than 
to  express  extremes.  But  Timanthes  knew  the 
limits  which  the  graces  have  imposed  upon  his  art 
He  knew  that  the  grief  befitting  Agamemnon,  as 
father,  produces  contortions  which  are  essentially 
ugly.  He  carried  expression  as  far  as  was  consist- 
ent with  beauty  and  dignity.  Ugliness  he  would 
gladly  have  passed  over,  or  have  softened,  but  since 
his  subject  admitted  of  neither,  there  was  nothing 
left  him  but  to  veil  it.  What  he  might  not  paint  he 
left  to  be  imagined.  That  concealment  was  in  short 
a sacrifice  to  beauty  ; an  example  to  show,  not  how 
expression  can  be  carried  beyond  the  limits  of  art, 
but  how  it  should  be  subjected  to  the  first  law  of 
art,  the  law  of  beauty. 

Apply  this  to  the  Laocoon  and  we  have  the  cause 
we  were  seeking.  The  master  was  striving  to  attain 
the  greatest  beauty  under  the  given  conditions  of 
bodily  pain.  Pain,  in  its  disfiguring  extreme,  was 
not  compatible  with  beauty,  and  must  therefore  be 
softened.  Screams  must  be  reduced  to  sighs,  not 
because  screams  would  betray  weakness,  but  because 
they  would  deform  the  countenance  to  a repulsive 
degree.  Imagine  Laocoon’s  mouth  open,  and  judge. 
Let  him  scream,  and  see.  It  was,  before,  a figure  to 
inspire  compassion  in  its  beauty  and  suffering.  Now 
it  is  ugly,  abhorrent,  and  we  gladly  avert  our  eyes 
from  a painful  spectacle,  destitute  of  the  beauty 


14 


LAOCOON. 


which  alone  could  turn  our  pain  into  the  sweet  feel- 
ing of  pity  for  the  suffering  object. 

The  simple  opening  of  the  mouth,  apart  from  the 
violent  and  repulsive  contortions  it  causes  in  the 
other  parts  of  the  face,  is  a blot  on  a painting  and  a 
cavity  in  a statue  productive  of  the  worst  possible 
effect.  Montfaucon  showed  little  taste  when  he 
pronounced  the  bearded  face  of  an  old  man  with 
wide  open  mouth,  to  be  a Jupiter  delivering  an 
oracle.1  Cannot  a god  foretell  the  future  without 
screaming  ? Would  a more  becoming  posture  of  the 
lips  cast  suspicion  upon  his  prophecies  ? Valerius 
cannot  make  me  believe  that  Ajax  was  painted 
screaming  in  the  above-mentioned  picture  of  Timan- 
thes.2 3  Far  inferior  masters,  after  the  decline  of  art, 
do  not  in  a single  instance  make  the  wildest  bar- 
barian open  his  mouth  to  scream,  even  though  in 
mortal  terror  of  his  enemy’s  sword.8 

This  softening  of  the  extremity  of  bodily  suffering 
into  a lesser  degree  of  pain  is  apparent  in  the  works 
of  many  of  the  old  artists.  Hercules,  writhing  in 
his  poisoned  robe,  from  the  hand  of  an  unknown 
master,  was  not  the  Hercules  of  Sophocles,  who 
made  the  Locrian  rocks  and  the  Eubcean  promontory 
ring  with  his  horrid  cries.  He  was  gloomy  rather 
than  wild.4  The  Philoctetes  of  Pythagoras  Leontinus 
seemed  to  communicate  his  pain  to  the  beholder, 

1 Antiquit.  expl.  T.  i.  p.  50. 

* See  Appendix,  note  5. 

3 Bellorii  Admiranda,  Tab.  11,  12. 

* Plinius,  lib.  xxxiv.  sect.  19. 


LAOKOON 

(Head  set  straight  for  purposes  of  comparison) 
Vatican,  Rome 


The  university  prints 

BOSTON 


LAOCOON. 


15 


an  effect  which  would  have  been  destroyed  by  the 
slightest  disfigurement  of  the  features.  It  may  be 
asked  how  I know  that  this  master  made  a statue 
of  Philoctetes.  From  a passage  in  Pliny,  which 
ought  not  to  have  waited  for  my  emendation,  so 
evident  is  the  alteration  or  mutilation  it  has  under 
gone.1 

1 See  Appendix,  note  & 


16 


LAOCOON. 


III. 

But,  as  already  observed,  the  realm  of  art  has  in 
modern  times  been  greatly  enlarged.  Its  imitations 
are  allowed  to  extend  over  all  visible  nature,  of 
which  beauty  constitutes  but  a small  part.  Truth 
and  expression  are  taken  as  its  first  law.  As  nature 
always  sacrifices  beauty  to  higher  ends,  so  should 
the  artist  subordinate  it  to  his  general  purpose,  and 
not  pursue  it  further  than  truth  and  expression  allow. 
Enough  that  truth  and  expression  convert  what  is 
unsightly  in  nature  into  a beauty  of  art. 

Allowing  this  idea  to  pass  unchallenged  at  pres- 
ent for  whatever  it  is  worth,  are  there  not  other 
independent  considerations  which  should  set  bounds 
to  expression,  and  prevent  the  artist  from  choosing 
for  his  imitation  the  culminating  point  of  any  action? 

The  single  moment  of  time  to  which  art  must  con- 
fine itself,  will  lead  us,  I think,  to  such  considera- 
tions. Since  the  artist  can  use  but  a single  moment 
of  ever-changing  nature,  and  the  painter  must  fur- 
ther confine  his  study  of  this  one  moment  to  a single 
point  of  view,  while  their  works  are  made  not  simply 
to  be  looked  at,  but  to  be  contemplated  long  and 
often,  evidently  the  most  fruitful  moment  and  the 
most  fruitful  aspect  of  that  moment  must  be  chosea 
Now  that  only  is  fruitful  which  allows  free  play  to 


LAOCOON. 


17 


the  imagination.  The  more  we  see  the  more  we 
must  be  able  to  imagine ; and  the  more  we  imagine, 
the  more  we  must  think  we  see.  But  no  moment  in 
the  whole  course  of  an  action  is  so  disadvantageous 
in  this  respect  as  that  of  its  culmination.  There  is 
nothing  beyond,  and  to  present  the  uttermost  to  the 
eye  is  to  bind  the  wings  of  Fancy,  and  compel  her, 
since  she  cannot  soar  beyond  the  impression  made  on 
the  senses,  to  employ  herself  with  feebler  images,  shun- 
ning as  her  limit  the  visible  fulness  already  expressed. 
When,  for  instance,  Laocoon  sighs,  imagination  can 
hear  him  cry ; but  if  he  cry,  imagination  can  neither 
mount  a step  higher,  nor  fall  a step  lower,  without 
seeing  him  in  a more  endurable,  and  therefore  less 
interesting,  condition.  We  hear  him  merely  groan- 
ing, or  we  see  him  already  dead. 

Again,  since  this  single  moment  receives  from  art 
an  unchanging  duration,  it  should  express  nothing 
essentially  transitory.  All  phenomena,  whose  nature 
it  is  suddenly  to  break  out  and  as  suddenly  to  dis- 
appear, which  can  remain  as  they  are  but  for  a 
moment ; all  such  phenomena,  whether  agreeable  or 
otherwise,  acquire  through  the  perpetuity  conferred 
upon  them  by  art  such  an  unnatural  appearance, 
that  the  impression  they  produce  becomes  weaker 
with  every  fresh  observation,  till  the  whole  subject 
at  last  wearies  or  disgusts  us.  La  Mettrie,  who  had 
himself  painted  and  engraved  as  a second  Democ- 
ritus, laughs  only  the  first  time  we  look  at  him. 
Looked  at  again,  the  philosopher  becomes  a buffoon, 
and  his  laugh  a grimace.  So  it  is  with  a cry.  Paint 

2 


i8 


LAOCOON. 


which  is  so  violent  as  to  extort  a scream,  either  soon 
abates  or  it  must  destroy  the  sufferer.  Again,  if  a 
man  of  firmness  and  endurance  cry,  he  does  not  do 
so  unceasingly,  and  only  this  apparent  continuity  in 
art  makes  the  cry  degenerate  into  womanish  weak- 
ness or  childish  impatience.  This,  at  least,  the 
sculptor  of  the  Laocoon  had  to  guard  against, 
even  had  a cry  not  been  an  offence  against  beauty, 
and  were  suffering  without  beauty  a legitimate  sub- 
ject of  art. 

Among  the  old  painters  Timomachus  seems  to 
have  been  the  one  most  fond  of  choosing  extremes 
for  his  subject.  His  raving  Ajax  and  infanticide 
Medea  were  famous.  But  from  the  descriptions  we 
have  of  them  it  is  clear  that  he  had  rare  skill  in 
selecting  that  point  which  leads  the  observer  to 
imagine  the  crisis  without  actually  showing  it,  and 
in  uniting  with  this  an  appearance  not  so  essentially 
transitory  as  to  become  offensive  through  the  con- 
tinuity conferred  by  art.  He  did  not  paint  Medea 
at  the  moment  of  her  actually  murdering  her  chil- 
dren, but  just  before,  when  motherly  love  is  still 
struggling  with  jealousy.  We  anticipate  the  result 
and  tremble  at  the  idea  of  soon  seeing  Medea  in  her 
unmitigated  ferocity,  our  imagination  far  outstripping 
any  thing  the  painter  could  have  shown  us  of  that 
terrible  moment.  For  that  reason  her  prolonged 
indecision,  so  far  from  displeasing  us,  makes  us  wish 
it  had  been  continued  in  reality.  We  wish  this  con- 
flict of  passions  had  never  been  decided  or  had 
lasted  at  least  till  time  and  reflection  had  weakened 


LAOCOON. 


19 


her  fury  and  secured  the  victory  to  the  maternal 
sentiments.  This  wisdom  on  the  part  of  Timom- 
achus  won  for  him  great  and  frequent  praise,  and 
raised  him  far  above  another  artist  unknown,  who 
was  foolish  enough  to  paint  Medea  at  the  height  of 
her  madness,  thus  giving  to  this  transient  access  of 
passion  a duration  that  outrages  nature.  The  poet1 
censures  him  for  this,  and  says  very  justly,  apostro- 
phizing the  picture,  “ Art  thou  then  for  ever  thirsting 
for  the  blood  of  thy  children?  Is  there  always  a 
new  Jason  and  a new  Creusa  to  inflame  thy  rage? 
To  the  devil  with  the  very  picture  of  thee  ! ” he  adds 
angrily. 

Of  Timomachus’  treatment  of  the  raving  Ajax, 
we  can  judge  by  what  Philostratus  tells  us.2  Ajax 
was  not  represented  at  the  moment  when,  raging 
among  the  herds,  he  captures  and  slays  goats  and 
oxen,  mistaking  them  for  men.  The  master  showed 
him  sitting  weary  after  these  crazy  deeds  of  heroism, 
and  meditating  self-destruction.  That  was  really 
the  raving  Ajax,  not  because  he  is  raving  at  the 
moment,  but  because  we  see  that  he  has  been  raving, 
and  with  what  violence  his  present  reaction  of  shame 
and  despair  vividly  portrays.  We  see  the  force  of 
the  tempest  in  the  wrecks  and  corpses  with  which  it 
has  strewn  the  beach. 

1 Philippus,  Anthol.  lib.  iv.  cap.  9,  ep.  10. 

’A tei  yap  diipag  (3pe<peuv  <povov.  7)  rig  'I tjouv 
Aevrepog,  f]  TTuivktj  ng  iraXi  col  irpoipaotg ; 

'E/W  Kal  & KTjpip  TiaidoKTove  . . . 

* Vita  Apoll.  lib.  ii.  cap.  22. 


20 


LA0C00N. 


IV. 

A review  of  the  reasons  here  alleged  for  the  mod* 
eration  observed  by  the  sculptor  of  the  Laocoon  in 
the  expression  of  bodily  pain,  shows  them  to  lie 
wholly  in  the  peculiar  object  of  his  art  and  its 
necessary  limitations.  Scarce  one  of  them  would 
be  applicable  to  poetry. 

Without  inquiring  here  how  far  the  poet  can  sue 
ceed  in  describing  physical  beauty,  so  much  at  least 
is  clear,  that  since  the  whole  infinite  realm  of  per- 
fection lies  open  for  his  imitation,  this  visible  cover- 
ing under  which  perfection  becomes  beauty  will  be 
one  of  his  least  significant  means  of  interesting  us 
in  his  characters.  Indeed,  he  often  neglects  it 
altogether,  feeling  sure  that  if  his  hero  have  gained 
our  favor,  his  nobler  qualities  will  either  so  engross 
us  that  we  shall  not  think  of  his  body,  or  have  so 
won  us  that,  if  we  think  of  it,  we  shall  naturally 
attribute  to  him  a beautiful,  or,  at  least,  no  unsightly 
one.  Least  of  all  will  he  have  reference  to  the  eye 
in  every  detail  not  especially  addressed  to  the  sense 
of  sight.  When  Virgil’s  Laocoon  screams,  who  stops 
to  think  that  a scream  necessitates  an  open  mouth, 
and  that  an  open  mouth  is  ugly?  Enough  that 
u clamores  horrendos  ad  sidera  tollit  ” is  fine  to  the 


LAOCOON. 


21 


ear,  no  matter  what  its  effect  on  the  eye.  Whoever 
requires  a beautiful  picture  has  missed  the  whole 
intention  of  the  poet. 

Further,  nothing  obliges  the  poet  to  concentrate 
his  picture  into  a single  moment.  He  can  take  up 
every  action,  if  he  will,  from  its  origin,  and  carry  it 
through  all  possible  changes  to  its  issue.  Every 
change,  which  would  require  from  the  painter  a 
separate  picture,  costs  him  but  a single  touch ; a 
touch,  perhaps,  which,  taken  by  itself,  might  offend 
the  imagination,  but  which,  anticipated,  as  it  has 
been,  by  what  preceded,  and  softened  and  atoned  for 
b)  what  follows,  loses  its  individual  effect  in  the 
admirable  result  of  the  whole.  Thus  were  it  really 
unbecoming  in  a man  to  cry  out  in  the  extremity  of 
bodily  pain,  how  can  this  momentary  weakness  lower 
in  our  estimation  a character  whose  virtues  have 
previously  won  our  regard  ? Virgil’s  Laocoon  cries  ; 
but  this  screaming  Laocoon  is  the  same  we  know 
and  love  as  the  most  far-seeing  of  patriots  and  the 
tenderest  of  fathers.  We  do  not  attribute  the  cry 
to  his  character,  but  solely  to  his  intolerable  suffer- 
ings. We  hear  in  it  only  those,  nor  could  they  have 
been  made  sensible  to  us  in  any  other  way. 

Who  blames  the  poet,  then?  Rather  must  we 
acknowledge  that  he  was  right  in  introducing  the 
cry,  as  the  sculptor  was  in  omitting  it. 

But  Virgil’s  is  a narrative  poem.  Would  the 
dramatic  poet  be  included  in  this  justification  ? A 
very  different  impression  is  made  by  the  mention  of 
a cry  and  the  cry  itself.  The  drama,  being  meant 


22 


LAOCOON. 


for  a living  picture  to  the  spectator,  should  there* 
fore  perhaps  conform  more  strictly  to  the  laws  of 
material  painting.  In  the  drama  we  not  only  fancy 
we  see  and  hear  a crying  Philoctetes,  we  actually 
do  see  and  hear  him.  The  more  nearly  the  actor 
approaches  nature,  the  more  sensibly  must  our  eyes 
and  ears  be  offended,  as  in  nature  they  undoubtedly 
are  when  we  hear  such  loud  and  violent  expressions 
of  pain.  Besides,  physical  suffering  in  general  pos- 
sesses in  a less  degree  than  other  evils  the  power  of 
arousing  sympathy.  The  imagination  cannot  take 
hold  of  it  sufficiently  for  the  mere  sight  to  arouse  in 
us  any  corresponding  emotion.  Sophocles,  there- 
fore, might  easily  have  overstepped  the  bounds  not 
only  of  conventional  propriety,  but  of  a propriety 
grounded  in  the  very  nature  of  our  sensibilities,  in 
letting  Philoctetes  and  Hercules  moan  and  weep, 
scream  and  roar.  The  by-standers  cannot  possibly 
feel  such  concern  for  their  suffering  as  these  exces- 
sive outbreaks  seem  to  demand.  To  us  spectators 
the  lookers-on  will  seem  comparatively  cold ; and 
yet  we  cannot  but  regard  their  sympathy  as  the 
measure  of  our  own.  Add  to  this  that  the  actor  can 
rarely  or  never  carry  the  representation  of  bodily 
pain  to  the  point  of  illusion,  and  perhaps  the  mod- 
ern dramatic  poets  are  rather  to  be  praised  than 
blamed  for  either  avoiding  this  danger  altogether  or 
skirting  it  at  a safe  distance. 

Much  would  in  theory  appear  unanswerable  if  the 
achievements  of  genius  had  not  proved  the  contrary. 
These  observations  are  not  without  good  foundation, 


LAOCOON. 


23 


yet  in  spite  of  them  Philoctetes  remains  one  of  the 
masterpieces  of  the  stage.  For  a portion  of  our 
strictures  do  not  apply  to  Sophocles,  and  by  a 
disregard  of  others  he  has  attained  to  beauties 
which  the  timid  critic,  but  for  this  example,  would 
never  have  dreamed  of.  The  following  remarks  will 
make  this  apparent : — 

1.  The  poet  has  contrived  wonderfully  to  intensify 
and  ennoble  the  idea  of  physical  pain.  He  chose  a 
wound, — for  we  may  consider  the  details  of  the 
story  dependent  upon  his  choice,  in  so  far  as  he 
chose  the  subject  for  their  sake, — he  chose,  I say, 
a wound  and  not  an  inward  distemper,  because  the 
most  painful  sickness  fails  to  impress  us  as  vividly 
as  an  outward  hurt.  The  inward  sympathetic  fire 
which  consumed  Meleager  when  his  mother  sacri- 
ficed him  in  the  brand  to  her  sisterly  fury,  would 
therefore  be  less  dramatic  than  a wound.  This 
wound,  moreover,  was  a divine  punishment.  In  it  a 
fiercer  than  any  natural  poison  raged  unceasingly, 
and  at  appointed  intervals  an  access  of  .ntenser 
pain  occurred,  always  followed  by  a heavy  sleep, 
wherein  exhausted  nature  acquired  the  needed 
strength  for  entering  again  upon  the  same  course  of 
pain.  Chateaubrun  represents  him  as  wounded  sim- 
ply by  the  poisoned  arrow  of  a Trojan.  But  so 
common  an  accident  gives  small  scope  for  extraor- 
dinary results.  Every  one  was  exposed  to  it  in  the 
old  wars ; why  were  the  consequences  so  terrible 
only  in  the  case  of  Philoctetes?  A natural  poison 
that  should  work  for  nine  years  without  destroying 


24 


I AOCOON. 


Ufe  is  far  more  improbable  than  all  the  fabulous 
miraculous  elements  with  which  the  Greek  decked 
out  his  tale. 

2.  But  great  and  terrible  as  he  made  the  physical 
sufferings  of  his  hero,  he  was  well  aware  that  these 
alone  would  not  suffice  to  excite  any  sensible  degree 
of  sympathy.  He  joined  with  them,  therefore,  other 
evils,  also  insufficient  of  themselves  to  move  us 
greatly,  but  receiving  from  this  connection  a darker 
hue  of  tragedy,  which  in  turn  reacted  upon  the 
bodily  pain.  These  evils  were  complete  loss  of 
human  companionship,  hunger,  and  all  the  discom- 
forts attendant  on  exposure  to  an  inclement  sky 
when  thus  bereft.1  Imagine  a man  under  these 
circumstances,  but  in  possession  of  health,  strength, 
and  industry,  and  we  have  a Robinson  Crusoe,  who 
has  little  claim  to  our  compassion,  though  we  are  by 
no  means  indifferent  to  his  fate.  For  we  are  seldom 
so  thoroughly  content  with  human  society  as  not  to 
find  a certain  charm  in  thinking  of  the  repose  to  be 
enjoyed  without  its  pale ; more  particularly  as  every 
one  flatters  himself  with  the  idea  of  being  able 
gradually  to  dispense  altogether  with  the  help  of 
others.  Again,  imagine  a man  suffering  from  the 
most  painful  of  incurable  maladies,  but  surrounded 
by  kind  friends  who  let  him  want  for  nothing,  who 
relieve  his  pain  by  all  the  means  in  their  power,  and 
are  always  ready  to  listen  to  his  groans  and  com- 
plaints ; we  should  pity  him  undoubtedly,  but  our 
compassion  would  soon  be  exhausted.  Wo  should 
1 See  Appendix,  note  7. 


LAOCOON. 


25 


presently  shrug  our  shoulders  and  counsel  patience. 
Only  when  all  these  ills  unite  in  one  person,  when 
to  solitude  is  added  physical  infirmity,  when  the  sick 
man  not  only  cannot  help  himself,  but  has  no  one  to 
help  him,  and  his  groans  die  away  on  the  desert  air, 
— then  we  see  a wretch  afflicted  by  all  the  ills  to 
which  human  nature  is  exposed,  and  the  very  thought 
of  putting  ourselves  in  his  place  for  a moment  fills 
us  with  horror.  We  see  before  us  despair  in  its 
most  dreadful  shape,  and  no  compassion  is  stronger 
or  more  melting  than  that  connected  with  the  idea  of 
despair.  Such  we  feel  for  Philoctetes,  especially  at 
the  moment  when,  robbed  of  his  bow,  he  loses  the 
only  means  left  him  of  supporting  his  miserable 
existence.  Alas  for  the  Frenchman  who  had  not 
the  sense  to  perceive  this  nor  the  heart  to  feel  it ! 
or,  if  he  had,  was  petty  enough  to  sacrifice  it  all  to 
the  pitiful  taste  of  his  nation!  Chateaubrun  gives 
Philoctetes  companionship  by  introducing  a princess 
into  his  desert  island.  Neither  is  she  alone,  but  has 
with  her  a lady  of  honor : a thing  apparently  as 
much  needed  by  the  poet  as  by  the  princess.  All 
the  admirable  play  with  the  bow  he  has  left  out  and 
introduced  in  its  stead  the  play  of  bright  eyes.  The 
heroic  youth  of  France  would  in  truth  have  made 
themselves  very  merry  over  a bow  and  arrows,  where- 
as nothing  is  more  serious  to  them  than  the  dis- 
pleasure of  bright  eyes.  The  Greek  harrows  us  with 
fear  lest  the  wretched  Philoctetes  should  be  forced 
to  remain  on  the  island  without  his  bow,  and  there 
miserably  perish.  The  Frenchman  found  a surer 


26 


LAOCOON. 


way  to  our  hearts  by  making  us  fear  that  the  son  of 
Achilles  would  have  to  depart  without  his  princess. 
And  this  is  called  by  the  Parisian  critics  triumphing 
over  the  ancients.  One  of  them  even  proposed  to 
name  Chateaubrun’s  piece  “ La  difficulty  vaincue.”  1 

3.  Turning  now  from  the  effect  of  the  whole,  let 
us  examine  the  separate  scenes  wherein  Philoctetes 
is  no  longer  the  forsaken  sufferer,  but  has  hope  of 
leaving  the  dreary  island  and  returning  to  his  king- 
dom. His  ills  are  therefore  now  confined  entirely 
to  his  painful  wound.  He  moans,  he  cries,  he  goes 
through  the  most  hideous  contortions.  Against  this 
scene  objections  on  the  score  of  offended  propriety 
may  with  most  reason  be  brought.  They  come  from 
an  Englishman,  a man,  therefore,  not  readily  to  be 
suspected  of  false  delicacy.  As  already  hinted,  he 
supports  his  objections  by  very  good  arguments. 
“ All  feelings  and  passions,”  he  says,  “ with  which 
others  can  have  little  sympathy,  become  offensive  if 
too  violently  expressed.” 2 “ It  is  for  the  same 

reason  that  to  cry  out  with  bodily  pain,  how  intol- 
erable soever,  appears  always  unmanly  and  unbe- 
coming. There  is,  however,  a good  deal  of  sympathy 
even  with  bodily  pain.  If  I see  a stroke  aimed  and 
just  ready  to  fall  upon  the  leg  or  arm  of  another 
person,  I naturally  shriek  and  draw  back  my  own 
leg  or  my  own  arm ; and  when  it  does  fall,  I feel  it 
in  some  measure  and  am  hurt  by  it  as  well  as  the 

1 Mercure  de  France,  April,  1755,  p.  1 77. 

2 “The  Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments,”  by  Adam  Smith, 
part  i.  sect.  2,  chap  1.  (London,  1761.) 


LAOCOON. 


2 7 


sufferer.  My  hurt,  however,  is  no  doubt  excessively 
slight,  and,  upon  that  account,  if  he  makes  any 
violent  outcry,  as  I cannot  go  along  with  him,  I 
never  fail  to  despise  him.” 

Nothing  is  more  deceptive  than  the  laying  down 
of  general  laws  for  our  emotions.  Their  web  is  so 
fine  and  intricate  that  the  most  cautious  speculation 
is  hardly  able  to  take  up  a single  thread  and  trace  it 
through  all  its  interlacings.  And  if  it  could,  what 
should  we  gain?  There  is  in  nature  no  single, 
unmixed  emotion.  With  every  one  spring  up  a 
thousand  others,  the  most  insignificant  of  which 
essentially  modifies  the  original  one,  so  that  excep- 
tion after  exception  arises  until  our  supposed  uni- 
versal law  shrinks  into  a mere  personal  experience 
in  a few  individual  cases.  We  despise  a man,  says 
the  Englishman,  whom  we  hear  crying  out  under 
bodily  pain.  But  not  always  ; not  the  first  time ; 
not  when  we  see  that  the  sufferer  does  all  in  his 
power  to  suppress  expressions  of  pain  ; not  when 
we  know  him  to  be  otherwise  a man  of  resolution : 
still  less  when  we  see  him  giving  proof  of  firmness 
in  the  midst  of  his  suffering ; when  we  see  that  pain, 
though  it  extort  a cry,  can  extort  nothing  further ; 
that  he  submits  to  a continuance  of  the  anguish 
rather  than  yield  a jot  of  his  opinions  or  resolves, 
although  such  a concession  would  end  his  woes. 
All  this  we  find  in  Philoctetes.  To  the  old  Greek 
mind  moral  greatness  consisted  in  unchanging  love 
of  friends  as  well  as  unfaltering  hatred  of  enemies. 
This  greatness  Philoctetes  preserves  through  all  his 


28 


LAOCOON. 


tortures.  His  own  griefs  have  not  so  exhausted  his 
tears  that  he  has  none  to  shed  over  the  fate  of  his 
old  friends.  His  sufferings  have  not  so  enervated 
him  that,  to  be  free  from  them,  he  would  forgive  his 
enemies  and  lend  himself  to  their  selfish  ends.  And 
did  this  man  of  rock  deserve  to  be  despised  by  the 
Athenians,  because  the  waves,  that  could  not  shake 
him,  wrung  from  him  a moan  ? 

I confess  to  having  little  taste  for  the  philosophy 
of  Cicero  in  general,  but  particularly  distasteful  to 
me  are  his  views  with  regard  to  the  endurance  of 
bodily  pain  set  forth  in  the  second  book  of  his  Tus- 
culan  Disputations.  One  would  suppose,  from  his 
abhorrence  of  all  expressions  of  bodily  pain,  that  he 
was  training  a gladiator.  He  seems  to  see  in  such 
expressions  only  impatience,  not  considering  that 
they  are  often  wholly  involuntary,  and  that  true 
courage  can  be  shown  in  none  but  voluntary  actions. 
In  the  play  of  Sophocles  he  hears  only  the  cries  and 
complaints  of  Philoctetes  and  overlooks  altogether 
his  otherwise  resolute  bearing.  Else  what  excuse 
for  his  rhetorical  outbreak  against  the  poets  ? “ They 
would  make  us  effeminate  by  introducing  the  bravest 
of  their  warriors  as  complaining.5’  They  should 
complain,  for  the  theatre  is  no  arena.  The  con- 
demned or  hired  gladiator  was  bound  to  do  and 
bear  with  grace.  No  sound  of  lamentation  must  be 
heard,  no  painful  contortion  seen.  His  wounds  and 
death  were  to  amuse  the  spectators,  and  art  must 
therefore  teach  the  suppression  of  all  feeling.  The 
least  manifestation  of  it  might  have  aroused  compas* 


LAOCOON. 


29 


Sion,  and  compassion  often  excited  would  soon  have 
put  an  end  to  the  cruel  shows.  But  what  is  to  be 
avoided  in  the  arena  is  the  very  object  of  the  tragic 
stage,  and  here,  therefore,  demeanor  of  exactly  the 
opposite  kind  is  required.  The  heroes  on  the  stage 
must  show  feeling,  must  express  their  sufferings,  and 
give  free  course  to  nature.  Any  appearance  of  art 
and  constraint  represses  sympathy.  Boxers  in  bus- 
kin can  at  most  excite  our  admiration.  This  term 
may  fitly  be  applied  to  the  so-called  Senecan  trage- 
dies. I am  convinced  that  the  gladiatorial  shows 
were  the  chief  reason  why  the  Romans  never  attained 
even  to  mediocrity  in  their  tragedies.  In  the  bloody 
amphitheatre  the  spectators  lost  all  acquaintance 
with  nature.  A Ctesias  might  have  studied  his  art 
there,  never  a Sophocles.  The  greatest  tragic  genius, 
accustomed  to  these  artificial  death  scenes,  could 
not  help  degenerating  into  bombast  and  rodomon- 
tade. But  as  these  were  incapable  of  inspiring  true 
heroism,  so  were  the  complaints  of  Philoctetes  inca- 
pable of  producing  effeminacy.  The  complaints 
are  human,  while  the  deeds  are  heroic.  Both  to- 
gether make  the  human  hero,  who  is  neither  effem- 
inate nor  callous,  but  appears  first  the  one  and  then 
the  other,  as  now  Nature  sways  him,  and  now  prin- 
ciple and  duty  triumph.  This  is  the  highest  type 
that  wisdom  can  create  and  art  imitate. 

4.  Sophocles,  not  content  with  securing  his  suffer- 
ing Philoctetes  against  contempt,  has  even  shielded 
him  beforehand  from  such  hostile  criticism  as  that 
employed  by  the  Englishman.  Though  we  may  not 


30 


LA0C00N. 


always  despise  a man  who  cries  out  under  bodily 
pain,  we  certainly  do  not  feel  that  degree  of  sympa- 
thy with  him  which  his  cry  seems  to  demand.  How 
then  should  those  comport  themselves  who  are  about 
this  screaming  Philoctetes  ? Should  they  appear  to 
be  greatly  moved?  That  were  contrary  to  nature. 
Should  they  seem  as  cold  and  embarrassed  as  the 
by-stander  on  such  occasions  is  apt  actually  to  be  ? 
Such  a want  of  harmony  would  offend  the  spectator. 
Sophocles,  as  I have  said,  anticipated  this  and  guarded 
against  it  in  the  following  way,  — he  gave  to  each  of 
the  by-standers  a subject  of  personal  interest.  They 
are  not  solely  occupied  with  Philoctetes  and  his  cries. 
The  attention  of  the  spectator,  therefore,  is  directed 
to  the  change  wrought  in  each  person’s  own  views 
and  designs  by  the  sympathy  excited  in  him,  whether 
strong  or  weak,  not  to  the  disproportion  between  the 
sympathy  itself  and  its  exciting  cause.  Neoptolemus 
and  the  chorus  have  deceived  the  unhappy  Philoc- 
tetes, and  while  perceiving  the  despair  they  are 
bringing  upon  him  they  behold  him  overpowered  by 
one  of  his  accesses  of  pain.  Even  should  this  arouse 
no  great  degree  of  sympathy  in  them,  it  must  at 
least  lead  them  to  self-examination  and  prevent  their 
increasing  by  treachery  a misery  which  they  cannot 
but  respect.  This  the  spectator  looks  for ; nor  is 
his  expectation  disappointed  by  the  magnanimous 
Neoptolemus.  Had  Philoctetes  been  master  of  his 
suffering,  Neoptolemus  would  have  persevered  in  his 
deceit.  Philoctetes,  deprived  by  pain  of  all  power 
of  dissimulation,  necessary  as  that  seems  to  pre- 


LAOCOON. 


3* 


vent  his  future  travelling  companion  from  repenting 
too  soon  of  his  promise  to  take  him  with  him,  Phil- 
octetes,  by  his  naturalness,  recalls  Neoptolemus  to 
nature.  The  conversion  is  admirable,  and  all  the 
more  affecting  for  being  brought  about  by  unaided 
human  nature.  The  Frenchman  had  recourse  again 
here  to  the  bright  eyes.  “ De  mes  deguisemens  que 
penserait  Sophie  ? ” says  the  son  of  Achilles.  But  I 
will  think  no  more  of  this  parody. 

Sophocles,  in  “The  Trachiniae,”  makes  use  of  this 
same  expedient  of  combining  in  the  by-standers  an- 
other emotion  with  the  compassion  excited  by  a cry 
of  physical  pain.  The  pain  of  Hercules  has  no 
enervating  effect,  but  drives  him  to  madness.  He 
thirsts  for  vengeance,  and,  in  his  frenzy,  has  already 
seized  upon  Lichas  and  dashed  him  in  pieces  against 
the  rock.  The  chorus  is  composed  of  women  who 
are  naturally  overpowered  with  fear  and  horror. 
Their  terror,  and  the  doubt  whether  a god  wiil 
hasten  to  Hercules’  relief,  or  whether  he  will  fall 
a victim  to  his  misfortune,  make  the  chief  interest 
of  the  piece  with  but  a slight  tinge  of  compassion. 
As  soon  as  the  issue  has  been  decided  by  the  oracle, 
Hercules  grows  calm,  and  all  other  feelings  are  lost 
in  our  admiration  of  his  final  decision.  But  we  must 
not  forget,  when  comparing  the  suffering  Hercules 
with  the  suffering  Philoctetes,  that  one  is  a demi-god, 
the  other  but  a man.  The  man  is  never  ashamed  to 
complain ; but  the  demi-god  feels  shame  that  his 
mortal  part  has  so  far  triumphed  over  his  immortal, 


32 


LAOCOON 


that  he  should  weep  and  groan  like  a girl.1  We 
moderns  do  not  believe  in  demi-gods,  but  require 
our  most  insignificant  hero  to  feel  and  act  like  one. 

That  an  actor  can  imitate  the  cries  and  convul- 
sions of  pain  so  closely  as  to  produce  illusion,  I 
neither  deny  nor  affirm.  If  our  actors  cannot,  I 
should  want  to  know  whether  Garrick  found  it 
equally  impossible ; and,  if  he  could  not  succeed,  I 
should  still  have  the  right  to  assume  a degree  of 
perfection  in  the  acting  and  declamation  of  the 
ancients  of  which  we  of  to-day  can  form  no  idea, 

1 Trach.  v.  1088,  1089 : 

hong  tjare  irapdevoc 

tdvakw  , , . 


LAOCOON. 


33 


V. 

Some  critics  of  antiquity  argue  that  the  Laocoon, 
though  a work  of  Greek  art,  must  date  from  the 
time  of  the  emperors,  because  it  was  copied  from  the 
Laocoon  of  Virgil.  Of  the  older  scholars  who  have 
held  this  opinion  I will  mention  only  Bartolomaeus 
Martiani,1  and  of  the  moderns,  Montfaucon.2  They 
doubtless  found  such  remarkable  agreement  between 
the  work  of  art  and  the  poem  that  they  could  not 
believe  the  same  circumstances,  by  no  means  self- 
suggesting  ones,  should  have  occurred  by  accident 
to  both  sculptor  and  poet.  The  question  then 
arose  to  whom  the  honor  of  invention  belonged,  and 
they  assumed  the  probabilities  to  be  decidedly  in 
favor  of  the  poet. 

They  appear,  however,  to  have  forgotten  that  a 
third  alternative  is  possible.  The  artist  may  not 
have  copied  the  poet  any  more  than  the  poet  the 

1 Topographiae  Urbis  Romse,  lib.  iv.  cap.  14.  Et  quan- 
quam  hi  (Agesander  et  Polydorus  et  Athenodorus  Rhodii) 
ex  Virgilii  descriptione  statuam  hanc  formavisse  videntur,  &c. 

2 Suppl.  aux  Ant.  Expliq.  T.  i.  p.  242.  II  semble  qu’Age- 
sandre,  Polydore,  et  Athenodore,  qui  en  furent  les  ouvriers, 
aient  travaille  comme  a l’envie,  pour  laisser  un  monument  qui 
rdpondait  h l’incomparable  description  qu’a  fait  Virgile  de 
Laocoon,  &c. 


3 


34 


LAOCOON. 


artist;  but  both  perhaps  drew  their  material  from 
some  older  source,  which,  Macrobius  suggests,  might 
have  been  Pisander.1  For,  while  the  works  of  this 
Greek  writer  were  still  in  existence,  the  fact  was 
familiar  to  every  schoolboy  that  the  Roman  poet’s 
whole  second  book,  the  entire  conquest  and  destruc- 
tion of  Troy,  was  not  so  much  imitated  as  literally 
translated  from  the  older  writer.  If  then  Pisander 
was  Virgil’s  predecessor  in  the  history  of  Laocoon 
also,  the  Greek  artists  did  not  need  to  draw  their 
material  from  a Latin  poet,  and  this  theory  of  the 
date  of  the  group  loses  its  support. 

If  I were  forced  to  maintain  the  opinion  of  Mar- 
tiani  and  Montfaucon,  I should  escape  from  the 
difficulty  in  this  way.  Pisander’s  poems  are  lost, 
and  we  can  never  know  with  certainty  how  he  told 
the  story  of  Laocoon.  Probably,  however,  he  nar- 
rated it  with  the  same  attendant  circumstances  of 
which  we  still  find  traces  in  the  Greek  authors. 
Now  these  do  not  in  the  least  agree  with  the  version 
of  Virgil,  who  must  have  recast  the  Greek  tradition 
to  suit  himself.  The  fate  of  Laocoon,  as  he  tells  it, 
is  quite  his  own  invention,  so  that  the  artists,  if  their 
representation  harmonize  with  his,  may  fairly  be 
supposed  to  have  lived  after  his  time,  and  have  used 
his  description  as  their  model. 

Quintus  Calaber  indeed,  like  Virgil,  makes  Lao- 
coon express  suspicion  of  the  wooden  horse ; but 
the  wrath  of  Minerva,  which  he  thereby  incurs,  is 
very  differently  manifested.  As  the  Trojan  utters 
1 See  Appendix,  note  8. 


LAOCOON. 


35 


his  warning,  the  earth  trembles  beneath  him,  pain 
and  terror  fall  upon  him ; a burning  pain  rages  in 
his  eyes  ; his  brain  gives  way  ; he  raves  ; he  becomes 
blind.  After  his  blindness,  since  he  still  continues 
to  advise  the  burning  of  the  wooden  horse,  Minerva 
sends  two  terrible  dragons,  which,  however,  attack 
only  Laocoon’s  children.  In  vain  they  stretch  out 
their  hands  to  their  father.  The  poor  blind  man 
cannot  help  them.  They  are  torn  and  mangled, 
and  the  serpents  glide  away  into  the  ground,  doing 
no  injury  to  Laocoon  himself.  That  this  was  not 
peculiar  to  Quintus,1  but  must  have  been  generally 
accepted,  appears  from  a passage  in  Lycophron, 
where  these  serpents  receive  the  name  of  “child- 
eaters.”  2 

But  if  this  circumstance  were  generally  accepted 
among  the  Greeks,  Greek  artists  would  hardly  have 
ventured  to  depart  from  it.  Or,  if  they  made  vari- 
ations, these  would  not  be  likely  to  be  the  same  as 
those  of  a Roman  poet,  had  they  not  known  him 
and  perhaps  been  especially  commissioned  to  use 
him  as  their  model.  We  must  insist  on  this  point, 
I think,  if  we  would  uphold  Martiani  and  Mont- 
faucon.  Virgil  is  the  first  and  only  one3  who  repre- 
sents both  father  and  children  as  devoured  by  the 
serpents  ; the  sculptors  have  done  this  also,  although, 
as  Greeks,  they  should  not;  probably,  therefore, 
they  did  it  in  consequence  of  Virgil’s  example. 

1 Paralip.  lib.  xii.  v.  398-408. 

* Or  rather  serpent,  for  Lycophron  mentions  but  one  1 

kclL  luudofipCnoq  nopidog  vijoovg  dnrXds' 

* See  Appendix,  note  9. 


36 


LAOCOON. 


I am  well  aware  that  this  probability  falls  far 
short  of  historical  certainty.  But  since  I mean  to 
draw  no  historical  conclusions  from  it,  we  may  be 
allowed  to  use  it  as  an  hypothesis  on  which  to  base 
our  remarks.  Let  us  suppose,  then,  that  the  sculptors 
used  Virgil  as  their  model,  and  see  in  what  way  they 
would  have  copied  him.  The  cry  has  been  already 
discussed.  A further  comparison  may  perhaps  lead 
to  not  less  instructive  results. 

The  idea  of  coiling  the  murderous  serpents  about 
both  father  and  sons,  tying  them  thus  into  one 
knot,  is  certainly  a very  happy  one,  and  betrays 
great  picturesqueness  of  fancy.  Whose  was  it  ? the 
poet’s  or  the  artist’s  ? Montfaucon  thinks  it  is  not 
to  be  found  in  the  poem  j1  but,  in  my  opinion,  he 
has  not  read  the  passage  with  sufficient  care. 

Illi  agmine  certo 

Laocoonta  petunt,  et  primura  parva  duorum 
Corpora  natorum  serpens  amplexus  uterque 
Implicat  et  miseros  morsu  depascitur  artus. 

Post  ipsum,  auxilio  subeuntem  et  tela  ferentem, 
Corripiunt  spirisque  ligant  ingentibus.2 

The  poet  has  described  the  serpents  as  being  of 
a wonderful  length.  They  have  wound  their  coils 
about  the  boys  and  seize  the  father  also  (corripiunt) 

1 See  Appendix,  note  io. 

2 Their  destined  way  they  take, 

And  to  Laocoon  and  his  children  make  ; 

And  first  around  the  tender  boys  they  wind, 

Then  with  their  sharpened  fangs  their  limbs  and  bodies  grind. 

The  wretched  father,  running  to  their  aid 

With  pious  haste,  but  vain,  they  next  invade.  — Dryden. 


.l-AOCOON. 


37 


as  he  comes  to  their  aid.  Owing  to  their  great 
length  they  could  not  in  an  instant  have  disengaged 
themselves  from  the  boys.  There  must  therefore 
have  been  a moment  when  the  heads  and  forward 
parts  of  the  bodies  had  attacked  the  father  while  the 
boys  were  still  held  imprisoned  in  the  hindmost 
coils.  Such  a moment  is  unavoidable  in  the  prog- 
ress of  the  poetic  picture;  and  the  poet  makes  it 
abundantly  manifest,  though  that  was  not  the  time 
to  describe  it  in  detail.  A passage  in  Donatus1 
seems  to  prove  that  the  old  commentators  were  con- 
scious of  it ; and  there  was  still  less  likelihood  of  its 
escaping  the  notice  of  artists  whose  trained  eye  was 
quick  to  perceive  any  thing  that  could  be  turned  to 
their  advantage. 

The  poet  carefully  leaves  Laocoon’s  arms  free 
that  he  may  have  the  full  use  of  his  hands. 

Ille  simul  manibus  tendit  divellere  nodos.2 
In  this  point  the  artist  must  necessarily  have  fol- 
lowed him ; for  nothing  contributes  more  to  the 
expression  of  life  and  motion  than  the  action  of 
the  hands.  In  representations  of  passion,  espe- 
cially, the  most  speaking  countenance  is  ineffective 
without  it.  Arms  fastened  close  to  the  body  by  the 
serpents’  coils  would  have  made  the  whole  group 
cold  and  dead.  We  consequently  see  them  in  full 
activity,  both  in  the  main  figure  and  the  lesser  ones, 
and  most  active  where  for  the  moment  the  pain  is 
sharpest. 

1 See  Appendix,  note  n. 

With  both  his  hands  he  labors  at  the  knots. 


38 


LAOCOON. 


With  the  exception  of  this  freedom  of  the  arms, 
there  was,  however,  nothing  in  the  poet’s  manner  of 
coiling  the  serpents  which  could  be  turned  to  account 
by  the  artists.  Virgil  winds  them  twice  round  the 
body  and  twice  round  the  neck  of  Laocoon,  and  lets 
their  heads  tower  high  above  him. 

Bis  medium  amplexi,  bis  collo  squamea  circum 
Terga  dati,  superant  capite  et  cervicibus  aids.1 

This  description  satisfies  our  imagination  completely. 
The  noblest  parts  of  the  body  are  compressed  to 
suffocation,  and  the  poison  is  aimed  directly  at  the 
face.  It  furnished,  however,  no  picture  for  the  artist, 
who  would  show  the  physical  effects  of  the  poison 
and  the  pain.  To  render  these  conspicuous,  the 
nobler  parts  of  the  body  must  be  left  as  free  as  pos- 
sible, subjected  to  no  outward  pressure  which  would 
change  and  weaken  the  play  of  the  suffering  nerves 
and  laboring  muscles.  The  double  coils  would  have 
concealed  the  whole  trunk  and  rendered  invisible 
that  most  expressive  contraction  of  the  abdomen. 
What  of  the  body  would  be  distinguishable  above 
or  below  or  between  the  coils  would  have  been 
swollen  and  compressed,  not  by  inward  pain  but  by 
outward  violence.  So  many  rings  about  the  neck 
would  have  destroyed  the  pyramidal  shape  of  the 
group  which  is  now  pleasing  to  the  eye,  while  the 
pointed  heads  of  the  serpents  projecting  far  above 

1 Twice  round  his  waist  their  winding  volumes  rolled, 

And  twice  about  his  gasping  throat  they  fold. 

The  priest  thus  doubly  choked,  — their  crests  divide, 

And  towering  o’er  his  head  in  triumph  ride.  — Dryden, 


LAOCOON. 


39 


this  huge  mass,  would  have  been  such  a violation  of 
the  rules  of  proportion  that  the  effect  of  the  whole 
would  have  been  made  repulsive  in  the  extreme. 
There  have  been  designers  so  devoid  of  perception 
as  to  follow  the  poet  implicitly.  One  example  of 
the  hideous  result  may  be  found  among  the  illustra- 
tions by  Francis  Cleyn.1  The  old  sculptors  saw  at 
a glance  that  their  art  required  a totally  different 
treatment.  They  transferred  all  the  coils  from  the 
trunk  and  neck  to  the  thighs  and  feet,  parts  which 
might  be  concealed  and  compressed  without  injury 
to  the  expression.  By  this  means  they  also  conveyed 
the  idea  of  arrested  flight,  and  a certain  immobility 
very  favorable  to  the  arbitrary  continuance  of  one 
posture. 

I know  not  how  it  happens  that  the  critics  have 
passed  over  in  silence  this  marked  difference  between 
the  coils  in  the  marble  and  in  the  poem.  It  reveals 
the  wisdom  of  the  artist  quite  as  much  as  another 
difference  which  they  all  comment  upon,  though 
rather  by  way  of  excuse  than  of  praise,  — the  dif- 
ference in  the  dress.  Virgil’s  Laocoon  is  in  his 
priestly  robes,  while  in  the  group  he,  as  well  as  his 
two  sons,  appears  completely  naked.  Some  persons, 
it  is  said,  find  a great  incongruity  in  the  fact  that  a 
king’s  son,  a priest,  should  be  represented  naked 
when  offering  a sacrifice.  To  this  the  critics  answer 
in  all  seriousness  that  it  is,  to  be  sure,  a violation 
of  usage  but  that  the  artists  were  driven  to  it  from 
inability  to  give  their  figures  suitable  clothing.  Sculp- 

1 See  Appendix,  note  12. 


40 


LA0C00N. 


ture,  they  say,  cannot  imitate  stuffs,  ^hick  folds 
produce  a bad  effect.  Of  two  evils  they  have  there- 
fore chosen  the  lesser,  and  preferred  to  offend  against 
truth  rather  than  be  necessarily  faulty  in  drapery.1 
The  old  artists  might  have  laughed  at  the  objection, 
but  I know  not  what  they  would  have  said  to  this 
manner  of  answering  it.  No  greater  insult  could  be 
paid  to  art.  Suppose  sculpture  could  imitate  differ- 
ent  textures  as  well  as  painting,  would  Laocoon 
necessarily  have  been  draped?  Should  we  lose 
nothing  by  drapery  ? Has  a garment,  the  work  of 
slavish  hands,  as  much  beauty  as  an  organized  body, 
the  work  of  eternal  wisdom  ? Does  the  imitation  of 
the  one  require  the  same  skill,  involve  the  same 
merit,  bring  the  same  honor  as  the  imitation  of  the 
other  ? Do  our  eyes  require  but  to  be  deceived,  and 
is  it  a matter  of  indifference  to  them  with  what  they 
are  deceived  ? 

In  poetry  a robe  is  no  robe.  It  conceals  nothing. 
Our  imagination  sees  through  it  in  every  part. 
Whether  Virgil’s  Laocoon  be  clothed  or  not,  the 
agony  in  every  fibre  of  his  body  is  equally  visible. 
The  brow  is  bound  with  the  priestly  fillet,  but  not 
concealed.  Nay,  so  far  from  being  a hinderance,  the 
fillet  rather  strengthens  our  impression  of  the  suf- 
ferer’s agony. 

Perfusus  sanie  vittas  atroque  veneno.2 
His  priestly  dignity  avails  him  nothing.  The  very 

1 See  Appendix,  note  13, 

2 His  holy  fillets  the  blue  venom  blots.  — Dryden. 


LAOCOON. 


4* 

badge  of  it,  which  wins  him  universal  consideration 
and  respect,  is  saturated  and  desecrated  with  the 
poisonous  slaver. 

But  this  subordinate  idea  the  artist  had  to  sacri- 
fice to  the  general  effect.  Had  he  retained  even  the 
fillet,  his  work  would  have  lost  in  expression  from 
the  partial  concealment  of  the  brow  which  is  the 
seat  of  expression.  As  in  the  case  of  the  cry  he 
sacrificed  expression  to  beauty,  he  here  sacrificed 
conventionality  to  expression.  Conventionality,  in- 
deed, was  held  of  small  account  among  the  ancients. 
They  felt  that  art,  in  the  attainment  of  beauty,  its  true 
end,  could  dispense  with  conventionalities  altogether. 
Necessity  invented  clothes,  but  what  has  art  to  do 
with  necessity?  There  is  a beauty  of  drapery,  I 
admit ; but  it  is  nothing  as  compared  with  the  beauty 
of  the  human  form.  Will  he  who  can  attain  to  the 
greater  rest  content  with  the  lesser?  I fear  that 
the  most  accomplished  master  in  drapery,  by  his 
very  dexterity,  proves  his  weakness. 


4 2 


LAOCOON. 


VI. 

My  supposition  that  the  artists  imitated  the  poet  is 
no  disparagement  to  them.  On  the  contrary  the 
manner  of  their  imitation  reflects  the  greatest  credit 
on  their  wisdom.  They  followed  the  poet  without  suf- 
fering him  in  the  smallest  particular  to  mislead  them. 
A model  was  set  them,  but  the  task  of  transferring  it 
from  one  art  into  another  gave  them  abundant  oppor- 
tunity for  independent  thought.  The  originality 
manifested  in  their  deviations  from  the  model  proves 
them  to  have  been  no  less  great  in  their  art  than  the 
poet  was  in  his. 

Now,  reversing  the  matter,  I will  suppose  the  poet 
to  be  working  after  the  model  set  him  by  the  artists. 
This  is  a supposition  maintained  by  various  scholars.1 
I know  of  no  historical  arguments  in  favor  of  their 
opinion.  The  work  appeared  to  them  of  such 
exceeding  beauty  that  they  could  not  believe  it  to  be 
of  comparatively  recent  date.  It  must  have  been 
made  when  art  was  at  its  perfection,  because  it  was 
worthy  of  that  period. 

We  have  seen  that,  admirable  as  Virgil’s  picture 
is,  there  are  yet  traits  in  it  unavailable  for  the 


1 See  Appendix,  note  14. 


LAOCOON. 


43 


artist.  The  saying  therefore  requires  some  modifi- 
cation, that  a good  poetical  description  must  make  a 
good  picture,  and  that  a poet  describes  well  only 
in  so  far  as  his  details  may  be  used  by  the  artist. 
Even  without  the  proof  furnished  by  examples,  we 
should  be  inclined  to  predicate  such  limitation  from 
a consideration  of  the  wider  sphere  of  poetry,  the 
infinite  range  of  our  imagination,  and  the  intangi- 
bility of  its  images.  These  may  stand  side  by  side 
in  the  greatest  number  and  variety  without  conceal- 
ment or  detriment  to  any,  just  as  the  objects  them- 
selves or  their  natural  symbols  would  in  the  narrow 
limits  of  time  or  space. 

But  if  the  smaller  cannot  contain  the  greater  it 
can  be  contained  in  the  greater.  In  other  words,  if 
not  every  trait  employed  by  the  descriptive  poet  can 
produce  an  equally  good  effect  on  canvas  or  in 
marble,  can  every  trait  of  the  artist  be  equally  effec- 
tive in  the  work  of  the  poet?  Undoubtedly;  for 
what  pleases  us  in  a work  of  art  pleases  not  the  eye, 
but  the  imagination  through  the  eye.  The  same 
picture,  whether  presented  to  the  imagination  by 
arbitrary  or  natural  signs,  must  always  give  us  a 
similar  pleasure,  though  not  always  in  the  same 
degree. 

But  even  granting  this,  I confess  that  the  idea  of 
Virgil’s  having  imitated  the  artists  is  more  incon- 
ceivable to  me  than  the  contrary  hypothesis.  If 
the  artists  copied  the  poet,  I can  account  for  all 
their  deviations.  Differences  would  necessarily  have 
arisen,  because  many  traits  employed  by  him  with 


44 


LAOCOON. 


good  effect  would  in  their  work  have  been  objection- 
able. But  why  such  deviations  in  the  poet  ? Would 
he  not  have  given  us  an  admirable  picture  by  copy- 
ing the  group  faithfully  in  every  particular  ? 1 

I can  perfectly  understand  how  his  fancy,  working 
independently,  should  have  suggested  to  him  this 
and  that  feature,  but  I see  no  reason  why  his  judg- 
ment should  have  thought  it  necessary  to  transform 
the  beauties  that  were  before  his  eyes  into  these 
differing  ones. 

It  even  seems  to  me  that,  had  Virgil  used  this 
group  as  his  model,  he  could  hardly  have  contented 
himself  with  leaving  the  general  embrace  of  the 
three  bodies  within  the  serpents’  folds  to  be  thus 
guessed  at.  The  impression  upon  his  eye  would 
have  been  so  vivid  and  admirable,  that  he  could 
not  have  failed  to  give  the  position  greater  promi- 
nence in  his  description.  As  I have  said,  that  was 
not  the  time  to  dwell  upon  its  details ; but  the  ad- 
dition of  a single  word  might  have  put  a decisive 
emphasis  upon  it,  even  in  the  shadow  in  which  the 
poet  was  constrained  to  leave  it.  What  the  artist 
could  present  without  that  word,  the  poet  would  not 
have  failed  to  express  by  it,  had  the  work  of  art 
been  before  him. 

The  artist  had  imperative  reasons  for  not  allowing 
the  sufferings  of  his  Laocoon  to  break  out  into  cries. 
But  if  the  poet  had  had  before  him  in  the  marble 
this  touching  union  of  pain  with  beauty,  he  would 
certainly  have  been  under  no  necessity  of  disregard- 

1 See  Appendix,  note  15. 


LAOCOON. 


45 


mg  the  idea  of  manly  dignity  and  magnanimous 
patience  arising  from  it  and  making  his  Laocoon 
suddenly  startle  us  with  that  terrible  cry.  Richard- 
son says  that  Virgil’s  Laocoon  needed  to  scream, 
because  the  poet’s  object  was  not  so  much  to  excite 
compassion  for  him  as  to  arouse  fear  and  horror 
among  the  Trojans.  This  I am  ready  to  grant, 
although  Richardson  appears  not  to  have  considered 
that  the  poet  is  not  giving  the  description  in  his  o vn 
person,  but  puts  it  into  the  mouth  of  zEneas,  who, 
in  his  narration  to  Dido,  spared  no  pains  to  arouse 
her  compassion.  The  cry,  however,  is  not  what 
surprises  me,  but  the  absence  of  all  intermediate 
stages  of  emotion,  which  the  marble  could  not  have 
failed  to  suggest  to  the  poet  if,  as  we  are  supposing, 
he  had  used  that  as  his  model.  Richardson  goes  on 
to  say,  that  the  story  of  Laocoon  was  meant  only  as 
an  introduction  to  the  pathetic  description  of  the 
final  destruction  of  Troy,  and  that  the  poet  was 
therefore  anxious  not  to  divert  to  the  misfortunes  of 
a private  citizen  the  attention  which  should  be  con- 
centrated on  the  last  dreadful  night  of  a great  city.1 
But  this  is  a painter’s  point  of  view,  and  here  inad- 
missible. In  the  poem,  the  fate  of  Laocoon  and  the 
destruction  of  the  city  do  not  stand  side  by  side  as 
in  a picture.  They  form  no  single  whole  to  be  em« 
braced  at  one  glance,  in  which  case  alone  there  would 
have  been  danger  of  having  the  eye  more  attracted 
by  the  Laocoon  than  by  the  burning  city.  The  two 
descriptions  succeed  each  other,  and  I fail  to  see 

1 See  Appendix,  note  16. 


4 6 


LAOCOON. 


how  the  deepest  emotion  produced  by  the  first  could 
prejudice  the  one  that  follows.  Any  want  of  effect 
in  the  second  must  be  owing  to  its  inherent  want  of 
pathos. 

Still  less  reason  would  the  poet  have  had  for  alter- 
ing the  serpents’  coils.  In  the  marble  they  occupy 
the  hands  and  encumber  the  feet,  an  arrangement 
not  less  impressive  to  the  imagination  than  satisfac- 
tory to  the  eye.  The  picture  is  so  distinct  and  clear 
that  words  can  scarcely  make  it  plainer  than  natural 
signs. 

Micai  alter  et  ipsum 

Laocoonta  petit,  totumque  infraque  supraque 
Implicat  et  rabido  tandem  ferit  ilia  morsu. 

• ••••• 

At  serpens  lapsu  crebro  redeunte  subintrat 
Lubricus,  intortoque  ligat  genua  infima  nodo. 

These  lines  are  by  Sadolet.  They  would  doubt- 
less have  come  with  greater  picturesqueness  from 
Virgil,  had  his  fancy  been  fired  by  the  visible  model. 
Under  those  circumstances  he  would  certainly  have 
written  better  lines  than  those  we  now  have  of 
him. 

Bis  medium  amplexi,  bis  collo  squamea  circum 
Terga  dati,  superant  capite  et  cervicibus  altis. 

These  details  satisfy  the  imagination,  it  is  true;  but 
not  if  we  dwell  upon  them  and  try  to  bring  them 
distinctly  before  us.  We  must  look  now  at  the 
serpents,  and  now  at  Laocoon.  The  moment  we 
try  to  combine  them  into  one  picture,  the  grouping 


LAOCOON.  47 

begins  to  displease,  and  appear  in  the  highest  degree 
impicturesque. 

But  these  deviations  from  his  supposed  model, 
even  if  not  unfortunate,  were  entirely  arbitrary. 
Imitation  is  intended  to  produce  likeness,  but  how 
can  likeness  result  from  needless  changes  ? Such 
changes  rather  show  that  the  intention  was  not  to 
produce  likeness,  consequently  that  there  has  been 
no  imitation. 

Perhaps  not  of  the  whole,  some  may  urge,  but  of 
certain  parts.  Good ; but  what  are  the  parts  so 
exactly  corresponding  in  the  marble  and  in  the 
poem,  that  the  poet  might  seem  to  have  borrowed 
them  from  the  sculptor  ? The  father,  the  children, 
and  the  serpents,  both  poet  and  sculptor  received 
from  history.  Except  what  is  traditional  in  both, 
they  agree  in  nothing  but  the  single  circumstance 
that  father  and  sons  are  bound  by  the  serpents’  coils 
into  a single  knot.  But  this  arose  from  the  new 
version,  according  to  which  father  and  sons  were 
involved  in  a common  destruction,  — a version,  as 
already  shown,  to  be  attributed  rather  to  Virgil, 
since  the  Greek  traditions  tell  the  story  differently. 
If,  then,  there  should  have  been  any  imitation  here, 
it  is  more  likely  to  have  been  on  the  side  of  the 
artist  than  of  the  poet.  In  all  other  respects  their 
representations  differ,  but  in  such  a way  that  the 
deviations,  if  made  by  the  artist,  are  perfectly  con- 
sistent with  an  intention  to  copy  the  poet,  being 
such  as  the  sphere  and  limitations  of  his  art  would 
impose  on  him.  They  are,  on  the  contrary,  so 


48 


LAOCOON. 


many  arguments  against  the  supposed  imitation  of 
the  sculptor  by  the  poet.  Those  who,  in  the  face 
of  these  objections,  still  maintain  this  supposition, 
can  only  mean  that  the  group  is  older  than  the 
poem. 


LAOCOON. 


49 


VII. 

When  we  speak  of  an  artist  as  imitating  a poet  or  a 
poet  an  artist,  we  may  mean  one  of  two  things, — 
either  that  one  makes  the  work  of  the  other  his 
actual  model,  or  that  the  same  original  is  before 
them  both,  and  one  borrows  from  the  other  the 
manner  of  copying  it. 

When  Virgil  describes  the  shield  of  H£neas,  his 
imitation  of  the  artist  who  made  the  shield  is  of  the 
former  kind.  The  work  of  art,  not  what  it  repre- 
sents, is  his  model.  Even  if  he  describe  the  devices 
upon  it  they  are  described  as  part  of  the  shield,  not 
as  independently  existing  objects.  Had  Virgil,  on 
the  other  hand,  copied  the  group  of  the  Laocoon, 
this  would  have  been  an  imitation  of  the  second 
kind.  He  would  then  have  been  copying,  not  the 
actual  group,  but  what  the  group  represents,  and 
would  have  borrowed  from  the  marble  only  the 
details  of  his  copy. 

In  imitations  of  the  first  kind  the  poet  is  an  origina- 
tor, in  those  of  the  second  a copyist.  The  first  is 
part  of  the  universal  imitation  which  constitutes  the 
very  essence  of  his  art,  and  his  work  is  that  of  a 
genius,  whether  his  model  be  nature  or  the  product 
of  other  arts.  The  second  degrades  him  utterly* 


50 


LA0C00N. 


Instead  of  the  thing  itself  he  imitates  its  imitations, 
and  gives  us  a lifeless  reflection  of  another’s  genius 
for  original  touches  of  his  own. 

In  the  by  no  means  rare  cases  where  poet  and 
artist  must  study  their  common  original  from  the 
same  point  of  view,  their  copies  cannot  but  coincide 
in  many  respects,  although  there  may  have  been  no 
manner  of  imitation  or  emulation  between  them. 
These  coincidences  among  contemporaneous  artists 
and  poets  may  lead  to  mutual  illustrations  of  things 
no  longer  present  to  us.  But  to  try  to  help  out  these 
illustrations  by  tracing  design  where  was  only  chance, 
and  especially  by  attributing  to  the  poet  at  every 
detail  a reference  to  this  statue  or  that  picture,  is 
doing  him  very  doubtful  service.  Nor  is  the  reader 
a gainer  b}'  a process  which  renders  the  beautiful 
passages  perfectly  intelligible,  no  doubt,  but  at  the 
sacrifice  of  all  their  life. 

This  is  the  design  and  the  mistake  of  a famous 
English  work  by  the  Rev.  Mr.  Spence,  entitled, 
“ Polymetis ; or,  An  inquiry  concerning  the  agree- 
ment between  the  works  of  the  Roman  poets  and 
the  remains  of  the  ancient  artists,  being  an  attempt 
to  illustrate  them  mutually  from  one  another.” 1 
Spence  has  brought  to  his  work  great  classical 
learning  and  a thorough  knowledge  of  the  surviving 
works  of  ancient  art.  His  design  of  using  these  as 
means  to  explain  the  Roman  poets,  and  making  the 
poets  in  turn  throw  light  on  works  of  art  hitherto 

1 The  first  edition  was  issued  in  1747;  the  second,  1755* 
Selections  by  N.  Tindal  have  been  printed  more  than  once. 


LAOCOON. 


51 


imperfectly  understood,  has  been  in  many  instances 
happily  accomplished.  But  I nevertheless  maintain 
that  to  every  reader  of  taste  his  book  must  be  intol- 
erable. 

When  Valerius  Flaccus  describes  the  winged  thun- 
derbolts on  the  shields  of  the  Roman  soldiers,  — 

Nec  primus  radios,  miles  Romane,  corusci 
Fulminis  et  rutilas  scutis  diffuderis  alas, 

the  description  is  naturally  made  more  intelligible  to 
me  by  seeing  the  representation  of  such  a shield  on 
an  ancient  monument.1  It  is  possible  that  the  old 
armorers  represented  Mars  upon  helmets  and  shields 
in  the  same  hovering  attitude  that  Addison  thought 
he  saw  him  in  with  Rhea  on  an  ancient  coin,2  and 
that  Juvenal  had  such  a helmet  or  shield  in  mind  in 
that  allusion  of  his  which,  till  Addison,  h'ad  been  a 
puzzle  to  all  commentators. 

The  passage  in  Ovid  where  the  wearied  Cephalus 
invokes  Aura,  the  cooling  zephyr,  — 

“ Aura venias 

Meque  juves,  intresque  sinus,  gratissima,  nostros,” 

and  his  Procris  takes  this  Aura  for  the  name  of  a 
rival,  — this  passage,  I confess,  seems  to  me  more 
natural  when  I see  that  the  ancients  in  their  works 
of  art  personified  the  gentle  breezes,  and,  under  the 
name  Aurae,  worshipped  certain  female  sylphs.3 

I acknowledge  that  when  Juvenal  compares  an 
idle  patrician  to  a Hermes-column,  we  should  hardly 

1 Val.  Flaccus,  lib.  vi.  v.  55,  56.  Polymetis,  dial.  vi.  p.  5* 

8 See  Appendix,  note  17.  3 See  Appendix,  note  18. 


52 


LAOCOON. 


perceive  the  point  of  the  comparison  unless  we  had 
seen  such  a column  and  knew  it  to  be  a poorly  cut 
pillar,  bearing  the  head,  or  at  most  the  trunk,  of  the 
god,  and,  owing  to  the  want  of  hands  and  feet,  sug- 
gesting the  idea  of  inactivity.1 

Illustrations  of  this  kind  are  not  to  be  despised, 
though  neither  always  necessary  nor  always  conclu- 
sive. Either  the  poet  regarded  the  work  of  art  not 
as  a copy  but  as  an  independent  original,  or  both 
artist  and  poet  were  embodying  certain  accepted 
ideas.  Their  representations  would  necessarily  have 
many  points  of  resemblance,  which  serve  as  so 
many  proofs  of  the  universality  of  the  ideas. 

But  when  Tibullus  describes  Apollo  as  he  appeared 
to  him  in  a dream,  — the  fairest  of  youths,  his 
temples  wreathed  with  the  chaste  laurel,  Syrian 
odors  breathing  from  his  golden  hair  that  falls  in 
ripples  over  his  long  neck,  his  whole  body  as  pink 
and  white  as  the  cheek  of  the  bride  when  led  to  her 
bridegroom,  — why  need  these  traits  have  been  bor- 
rowed from  famous  old  pictures  ? Echion’s  “ nova 
nupta  verecundia  notabilis  ” may  have  been  in  Rome 
and  been  copied  thousands  of  times  : did  that  prove 
virgin  modesty  itself  to  have  vanished  from  the 
world?  Since  the  painter  saw  it,  was  no  poet  to  see 
it  more  save  in  the  painter’s  imitation  ? 2 Or  when 
another  poet  speaks  of  Vulcan  as  wearied  and  his 
face  reddened  by  the  forge,  did  he  need  a picture  to 

1 See  Appendix,  note  19. 

2 Tibullus,  Eleg.  4,  lib.  iii.  Polymetis,  dial,  viii. 


LAOCOON. 


53 


teach  him  that  labor  wearies  and  heat  reddens?1 
Or  when  Lucretius  describes  the  alternations  of  the 
seasons  and  brings  them  before  us  in  the  order  of 
nature,  with  their  whole  train  of  effects  on  earth 
and  air,  was  Lucretius  the  creature  of  a day?  had 
he  lived  through  no  entire  year  and  seen  its  changes, 
that  he  must  needs  have  taken  his  description  from 
a procession  of  statues  representing  the  seasons  ? 
Did  he  need  to  learn  from  statues  the  old  poetic 
device  of  making  actual  beings  out  of  such  abstrac- 
tions?2 Or  VirgiFs  “pontem  indignatus  Araxes,” 
that  admirable  poetic  picture  of  a river  overflowing 
its  banks  and  tearing  down  the  bridge  that  spans  it, — 
do  we  not  destroy  all  its  beauty  by  making  it  simply  a 
reference  to  some  work  of  art,  wherein  the  river  god 
was  represented  as  actually  demolishing  a bridge  ? 8 
What  do  we  want  of  such  illustrations  which  banish 
the  poet  from  his  own  clearest  lines  to  give  us  in 
his  place  the  reflection  of  some  artist’s  fancy? 

I regret  that  this  tasteless  conceit  of  substituting 
for  the  creations  of  the  poet’s  own  imagination  a 
familiarity  with  those  of  others  should  have  ren- 
dered a book,  so  useful  as  the  Polymetis  might  have 
been  made,  as  offensive  as  the  feeblest  commentaries 
of  the  shallowest  quibblers,  and  far  more  deroga- 
tory to  the  classic  authors.  Still  more  do  I regret 
that  Addison  should  in  this  respect  have  been  the 
predecessor  of  Spence,  and,  in  his  praiseworthy 

1 Statius,  lib.  i.  Sylv.  5,  v.  8.  Polymetis,  dial.  viii. 

2 See  Appendix,  note  20. 

8 dEneid,  lib.  viii.  725.  Polymetis,  dial.  xiv. 


54 


LAOCOON. 


desire  to  make  the  old  works  of  art  serve  as  inter- 
preters, have  failed  to  discriminate  between  those 
cases  where  imitation  of  the  artist  would  be  becom- 
ing in  the  poet,  and  those  where  it  would  be  degrad- 
ing to  him.1 

1 In  various  passages  of  his  Travels  [Remarks  on  Italy1 
and  his  Dialogues  on  Ancient  Medals. 


LAOCOON. 


55 


VIII. 

Spence  has  the  strangest  notions  of  the  resemblance 
between  painting  and  poetry.  He  believes  the  two 
arts  to  have  been  so  closely  connected  among  the 
ancients  that  they  always  went  hand  in  hand,  the 
poet  never  losing  sight  of  the  painter,  nor  the  pain- 
ter of  the  poet.  That  poetry  has  the  wider  sphere, 
that  beauties  are  within  her  reach  which  painting  can 
never  attain,  that  she  may  often  see  reason  to  piefer 
unpicturesque  beauties  to  picturesque  ones,  — these 
things  seem  never  to  have  occurred  to  him.  The 
slightest  difference,  therefore,  between  the  old  poets 
and  artists  throws  him  into  an  embarrassment  from 
which  it  taxes  all  his  ingenuity  to  escape. 

The  poets  generally  gave  Bacchus  horns.  Spence 
is  therefore  surprised  that  we  seldom  see  these 
appendages  on  his  statues.1  He  suggests  one  rea- 
son and  another ; now  the  ignorance  of  the  anti- 
quarians, and  again  “the  smallness  of  the  horns 
themselves,  which  were  very  likely  to  be  hid  under 
the  crown  of  grapes  or  ivy  which  is  almost  a con 
stant  ornament  of  the  head  of  Bacchus.”  He  goes 
all  round  the  true  cause  without  ever  suspecting  it. 
The  horns  of  Bacchus  were  not  a natural  growth 

1 Polymetis,  dial.  ix. 


56 


LAOCOON. 


like  those  of  fauns  and  satyrs.  They  were  orna- 
ments which  he  could  assume  or  lay  aside  at 
pleasure. 

Tibi,  cum  sine  cornibus  adstas, 

Virgineum  caput  est,  . . . 

says  Ovid  in  his  solemn  invocation  to  Bacchus.1 
He  could  therefore  show  himself  without  horns,  and 
did,  in  fact,  thus  show  himself  when  he  wished  to 
appear  in  his  virgin  beauty.  In  this  form  artists 
would  choose  to  represent  him,  and  necessarily 
omitted  all  disagreeable  accompaniments.  Horns 
fastened  to  the  diadem,  as  we  see  them  on  a head  in 
the  royal  museum  in  Berlin,2  would  have  been  a 
cumbersome  appendage,  as  would  also  the  diadem 
itself,  concealing  the  beautiful  brow.  For  this  rea- 
son the  diadem  appears  as  rarely  as  the  horns  on 
the  statues  of  Bacchus,  although,  as  its  inventor,  he 
is  often  crowned  with  it  by  the  poets.  In  poetry 
both  horns  and  diadem  served  as  subtle  allusions  to 
the  deeds  and  character  of  the  god : in  a picture  or 
statue  they  would  have  stood  in  the  way  of  greater 
beauties.  If  Bacchus,  as  I believe,  received  the 
name  of  Biformis,  /tifiOQCpog,  from  having  an  aspect 
of  beauty  as  well  as  of  terror,  the  artists  would 
naturally  have  chosen  the  shape  best  adapted  to  the 
object  of  their  art. 

In  the  Roman  poets  Minerva  and  Juno  often 

1 Metamorph.  lib.  iv.  19,  20.  When  thou  appearest  un» 
horned,  thy  head  is  as  the  head  of  a virgin. 

2 Begeri  Thes.  Brandenb.  vol.  iii.  p.  242. 


LAOCOON. 


57 


hurl  the  thunderbolt.  Why  are  they  not  so  repre- 
sented  in  art?  asks  Spence.1  He  answers,  “This 
power  was  the  privilege  of  these  two  goddesses,  the 
reason  of  which  was,  perhaps,  first  learnt  in  the  Sam- 
othracian  mysteries.  But  since,  among  the  ancient 
Romans,  artists  were  considered  as  of  inferior  rank, 
and  therefore  rarely  initiated  into  them,  they  would 
doubtless  know  nothing  of  them  ; and  what  they 
knew  not  of  they  clearly  could  not  represent.”  I 
should  like  to  ask  Spence  whether  these  common 
people  were  working  independently,  or  under  the 
orders  of  superiors  who  might  be  initiated  into  the 
mysteries ; whether  the  artists  occupied  such  a de- 
graded position  among  the  Greeks ; whether  the 
Roman  artists  were  not  for  the  most  part  Greeks  by 
birth ; and  so  on. 

Statius  and  Valerius  Flaccus  describe  an  angry 
Venus  with  such  terrible  features  that  we  should 
take  her  at  the  moment  for  a fury  rather  than  for  the 
goddess  of  love.  Spence  searches  in  vain  for  such 
a Venus  among  the  works  of  ancient  art.  What  is 
his  conclusion?  That  more  is  allowed  to  the  poet 
than  to  the  sculptor  and  painter?  That  should 
have  been  his  inference.  But  he  has  once  for  all 
established  as  a general  rule  that  “ scarce  any  thing 
can  be  good  in  a poetical  description  which  would 
appear  absurd  if  represented  in  a statue  or  picture.”2 
Consequently  the  poets  must  be  wrong.  “ Statius 
and  Valerius  Flaccus  belong  to  an  age  when  Roman 
poetry  was  already  in  its  decline.  In  this  very 

1 Polymetis,  dial.  vi.  2 Polymetis,  dial.  xx. 


58 


LAOCOON. 


passage  they  display  their  bad  judgment  and  cor- 
rupted taste.  Among  the  poets  of  a better  age  such 
a repudiation  of  the  laws  of  artistic  expression  will 
never  be  found.”  1 

Such  criticism  shows  small  power  of  discrimina- 
tion. I do  not  propose  to  undertake  the  defence  ci 
either  Statius  or  Valerius,  but  will  simply  make  a 
general  remark.  The  gods  and  other  spiritual 
beings  represented  by  the  artist  are  not  precisely  the 
same  as  those  introduced  by  the  poet.  To  the  artist 
they  are  personified  abstractions  which  must  always 
be  characterized  in  the  same  way,  or  we  fail  to 
recognize  them.  In  poetry,  on  the  contrary,  they 
are  real  beings,  acting  and  working,  and  possessing, 
besides  their  general  character,  qualities  and  passions 
which  may  upon  occasion  take  precedence.  Venus 
is  to  the  sculptor  simply  love.  He  must  therefore 
endow  her  with  all  the  modest  beauty,  all  the  tender 
charms,  which,  as  delighting  us  in  the  beloved  object, 
go  to  make  up  our  abstract  idea  of  love.  The  least 
departure  from  this  ideal  prevents  our  recognizing 
her  image.  Beauty  distinguished  more  by  majesty 
than  modesty  is  no  longer  Venus  but  Juno.  Charms 
commanding  and  manly  rather  than  tender,  give 
us,  instead  of  a Venus,  a Minerva.  A Venus 
all  wrath,  a Venus  urged  by  revenge  and  rage,  is 
to  the  sculptor  a contradiction  in  terms.  For  love, 
as  love,  never  is  angry,  never  avenges  itself.  To 
the  poet,  Venus  is  love  also,  but  she  is  the  god- 
dess of  love,  who  has  her  own  individuality  outside 

1 Polymetis,  dial.  vii. 


LAOCOON. 


59 


of  this  or.e  characteristic,  and  can  therefore  be 
actuated  by  aversion  as  well  as  affection.  What 
wonder,  then,  that  in  poetry  she  blazes  into  anger  and 
rage,  especially  under  the  provocation  of  insulted 
love  ? 

The  artist,  indeed,  like  the  poet,  may,  in  works 
composed  of  several  figures,  introduce  Venus  or  an} 
other  deity,  not  simply  by  her  one  characteristic,  but 
as  a living,  acting  being.  But  the  actions,  if  not  the 
direct  results  of  her  character,  must  not  be  at  vari- 
ance with  it.  Venus  delivering  to  her  son  the 
armor  of  the  gods  is  a subject  equally  suitable  to 
artist  and  poet.  For  here  she  can  be  endowed  with 
all  the  grace  and  beauty  befitting  the  goddess  of 
love.  Such  treatment  will  be  of  advantage  as  help- 
ing us  the  more  easily  to  recognize  her.  But  when 
Venus,  intent  on  revenging  herself  on  her  con- 
temners, the  men  of  Lemnos,  wild,  in  colossal  shape, 
with  cheeks  inflamed  and  dishevelled  hair,  seizes  the 
torch,  and,  wrapping  a black  robe  about  her,  flies 
downward  on  the  storm-cloud,  - — that  is  no  moment 
for  the  painter,  because  he  has  no  means  of  making 
us  recognize  her.  The  poet  alone  has  the  privilege 
of  availing  himself  of  it.  He  can  unite  it  so  closely 
with  some  other  moment  when  the  goddess  is  the 
true  Venus,  that  we  do  not  in  the  fury  forget  the 
goddess  of  love.  Flaccus  does  this,  — 

Neque  enim  alma  videri 
Jam  tumet ; aut  tereti  crinem  subnectitur  auro, 
Sidereos  diffusa  sinus.  Eadem  effera  et  ingens 


6o 


LAOCOON. 


Et  maculis  suffecta  genas  ; pinumque  sonantem 
Virginibus  Stygiis,  nigramque  similliraa  pallam.1 

And  Statius  also,— 

Ilia  Paphon  veterem  centumque  altaria  linquens, 

Nec  vultu  nec  crine  prior,  solvisse  jugalem 
Ceston,  et  Idalias  procul  ablegasse  volucres 
Fertur.  Erant  certe,  media  qui  noctis  in  umbra 
Divam,  alios  ignes  majoraque  tela  gerentem, 

Tartarias  inter  thalamis  volitasse  sorores 
Vulgarent : utque  implicitis  arcana  domorum 
Anguibus,  et  saeva  formidine  cuncta  replerit 
Limina.2 

Or,  we  may  say,  the  poet  alone  possesses  the  art 
of  so  combining  negative  with  positive  traits  as  to 
unite  two  appearances  in  one.  No  longer  now  the 
tender  Venus,  her  hair  no  more  confined  with  golden 
clasps,  no  azure  draperies  floating  about  her,  with- 
out her  girdle,  armed  with  other  flames  and  larger 

1 Argonaut,  lib.  ii.  v.  102-106.  “Gracious  the  goddess 
is  not  emulous  to  appear,  nor  does  she  bind  her  hair  with 
the  burnished  gold,  letting  her  starry  tresses  float  about  her. 
Wild  she  is  and  huge,  her  cheeks  suffused  with  spots ; most 
like  to  the  Stygian  virgins  with  crackling  torch  and  black 
mantle.” 

2 Thebaid.  lib.  v.  61-64.  “Leaving  ancient  Paphos  and 
the  hundred  altars,  not  like  her  former  self  in  countenance 
or  the  fashion  of  her  hair,  she  is  said  to  have  loosened 
the  nuptial  girdle  and  have  sent  away  her  doves.  Some 
report  that  in  the  dead  of  night,  bearing  other  fires  and 
mightier  arms,  she  had  hasted  with  the  Tartarean  sisters  to 
bed-chambers,  and  filled  the  secret  places  of  homes  with 
twining  snakes,  and  all  thresholds  with  cruel  fear.” 


LAOCOON. 


61 


arrows,  the  goddess  hastes  downward,  attended  by 
furies  of  like  aspect  with  herself.  Must  the  poet 
abstain  from  the  use  of  this  device  because  artists 
are  debarred  from  it?  If  painting  claim  to  be  the 
sister  of  poetry,  let  the  younger  at  least  not  be  jeal- 
ous of  the  elder,  nor  seek  to  deprive  her  of  orna- 
ments unbecoming  to  herself. 


62 


LAOCOON. 


IX. 

When  we  compare  poet  and  painter  in  particular 
instances,  we  should  be  careful  to  inquire  whether 
both  have  had  entire  freedom,  and  been  allowed  to 
labor  for  the  highest  results  of  their  art  without  the 
exercise  of  any  constraint  from  without. 

Religion  often  exercised  such  constraint  upon  the 
old  artists.  A work,  devotional  in  character,  must 
often  be  less  perfect  than  one  intended  solely  to 
produce  pleasure.  Superstition  loaded  the  gods 
with  symbols  which  were  not  always  reverenced  in 
proportion  to  their  beauty. 

In  the  temple  of  Bacchus  at  Lemnos,  from  which 
the  pious  Hypsipyle  rescued  her  father  under  the 
guise  of  the  deity,1  the  god  was  represented  horned. 
So  he  doubtless  appeared  in  all  his  temples,  the 
horns  being  symbols  typical  of  his  nature  and  func- 
tions. The  unfettered  artist,  whose  Bacchus  was 
.lot  designed  for  a temple,  omitted  the  symbol.  If, 
among  the  statues  of  the  god  that  remain  to  us,  we 
find  none  with  horns,2  that  circumstance  perhaps 
proves  that  none  of  them  were  sacred  statues,  repre- 
senting the  god  in  the  shape  under  which  he  was 
worshipped.  We  should  naturally  expect,  too,  that 


1 See  Appendix,  note  21. 


2 See  Appendix,  note  22. 


LAOCOON. 


63 


against  such  the  fury  of  the  pious  iconoclasts  in  the 
first  centuries  of  Christianity  would  have  been  espe- 
cially directed.  Only  here  and  there  a work  of  art 
was  spared,  because  it  had  never  been  desecrated  by 
being  made  an  object  of  worship. 

But  since,  among  the  antiques  that  have  been 
nnburied,  there  are  specimens  of  both  kinds,  we  should 
discriminate  and  call  only  those  works  of  art  which 
are  the  handiwork  of  the  artist,  purely  as  artist,  those 
where  he  has  been  able  to  make  beauty  his  first  and 
last  object.  All  the  rest,  all  that  show  an  evident 
religious  tendency,  are  unworthy  to  be  called  works 
of  art.  In  them  Art  was  not  working  for  her  own 
sake,  but  was  simply  the  tool  of  Religion,  having 
symbolic  representations  forced  upon  her  with  more 
regard  to  their  significance  than  their  beauty.  By 
this  I do  not  mean  to  deny  that  religion  often  sacri- 
ficed meaning  to  beauty,  or  so  far  ceased  to  empha- 
size it,  out  of  regard  for  art  and  the  finer  taste  of  the 
age,  that  beauty  seemed  to  have  been  the  sole  end 
in  view. 

If  we  make  no  such  distinction,  there  will  be 
perpetual  strife  between  connoisseurs  and  antiqua- 
rians from  their  failure  to  understand  each  other. 
When  the  connoisseur  maintains,  according  to  his 
conception  of  the  end  and  aim  of  art,  that  certain 
things  never  could  have  been  made  by  one  of  the 
old  artists,  meaning  never  by  one  working  as  artist 
from  his  own  impulse,  the  antiquarian  will  under- 
stand him  to  say  that  they  could  never  have  been 
fashioned  by  the  artist,  as  workman,  under  the  influ- 


64 


LAOCOON. 


ence  of  religion  or  any  other  power  outside  the 
domain  of  art.  He  will  therefore  think  to  confute 
his  antagonist  by  showing  some  figure  which  the 
connoisseur,  without  hesitation,  but  to  the  great 
vexation  of  the  learned  world,  will  condemn  back 
to  the  rubbish  from  which  it  had  been  dug.1 

But  there  is  danger,  on  the  other  hand,  of  exag- 
gerating  the  influence  of  religion  on  art.  Spence 
furnishes  a remarkable  instance  of  this.  He  found 
in  Ovid  that  Vesta  was  not  worshipped  in  her  tem- 
ple under  any  human  image,  and  he  thence  drew  the 
conclusion  that  there  had  never  been  any  statues  of 
the  goddess.  What  had  passed  for  such  must  be 
statues,  not  of  Vesta,  but  of  a vestal  virgin.2  An 
extraordinary  conclusion  ! Because  the  goddess  was 
worshipped  in  one  of  her  temples  under  the  symbol 
of  fire,  did  artists  therefore  lose  all  right  to  person- 
ify after  their  fashion  a being  to  whom  the  poets 
give  distinct  personality,  making  her  the  daughter 
of  Saturn  and  Ops,  bringing  her  into  danger  of  fall- 
ing under  the  ill  treatment  of  Priapus,  and  narrating 
yet  other  things  in  regard  to  her  ? For  Spence  com- 
mits the  further  error  of  applying  to  all  the  temples 
of  Vesta  and  to  her  worship  generally  what  Ovid 
says  only  of  a certain  temple  at  Rome.8  She  was 
not  everywhere  worshipped  as  in  this  temple  at 
Rome.  Until  Numa  erected  this  particular  sanc- 
tuary, she  was  not  so  worshipped  even  in  Italy.  N uma 

1 See  Appendix,  note  23. 

2 Polymetis,  dial.  vii. 

3 See  Appendix,  note  24. 


LAOCOON. 


65 


allowed  no  deity  to  be  represented  in  the  shape  of 
man  or  beast.  In  this  prohibition  of  all  personal 
representations  of  Vesta  consisted,  doubtless,  the 
reformation  which  he  introduced  into  her  rites. 
0\  id  himself  tells  us  that,  before  the  time  of  Numa, 
.here  were  statues  of  Vesta  in  her  temple,  which, 
when  her  priestess  Sylvia  became  a mother,  covered 
their  eyes  with  their  virgin  hands.1  Yet  further 
proof  that  in  the  temples  of  the  goddess  outside  the 
city,  in  the  Roman  provinces,  her  worship  was  not 
conducted  in  the  manner  prescribed  by  Numa,  is 
furnished  by  various  old  inscriptions,  where  mention 
is  made  of  a priest  of  Vesta  (Pontificis  Vestae).3 
At  Corinth,  again,  was  a temple  of  Vesta  without 
statues,  having  only  an  altar  whereon  sacrifices  were 
offered  to  the  goddess.8  But  did  the  Greeks,  there- 
fore, have  no  statues  of  Vesta?  There  was  one  at 
Athens  in  the  Prytaneum,  next  to  the  statue  of 
Peace.4  The  people  of  Iasos  boasted  of  having  one 
in  the  open  air,  upon  which  snow  and  rain  never 
fell.6  Pliny  mentions  one  in  a sitting  posture,  from 
the  chisel  of  Scopas,  in  the  Servilian  gardens  at 
Rome,  in  his  day.6  Granting  that  it  is  difficult  for 
us  now  to  distinguish  between  a vestal  virgin  and 
the  goddess  herself,  does  that  prove  that  the  ancients 

1 See  Appendix,  note  25. 

2 Lipsius  de  Vesta  et  Vestalibus,  cap.  13. 

3 Pausanias,  Corinth,  cap.  xxxv.  p.  198  (edit.  Kuhn). 

4 Pausanias,  Attic,  cap.  xviii.  p.  41. 

6 Polyb.  Plist.  lib.  xvi.  sect.  2,  Op.  T.  ii.  p.  443  (edit 
Ernest.). 

6 See  Appendix,  note  26. 


S 


66 


LAOCOON. 


were  not  able  or  did  not  care  to  make  the  distinc- 
tion? Certain  attributes  point  evidently  more  to 
one  than  the  other.  The  sceptre,  the  torch,  and  the 
palladium  would  seem  to  belong  exclusively  to  the 
goddess.  The  tympanum,  attributed  to  her  by  Cod- 
inus,  belongs  to  her,  perhaps,  only  as  the  Earth. 
Or  perhaps  Codinus  himself  did  not  know  exactly 
what  it  was  he  saw.1 


1 See  Appendix,  note  27. 


LAOCOON. 


6; 


X. 

Spence’s  surprise  is  again  aroused  in  a way  that 
shows  how  little  he  has  reflected  on  the  limits  of 
poetry  and  painting. 

“ As  to  the  muses  in  general,”  he  says,  “ it  is 
remarkable  that  the  poets  say  but  little  of  them  in  a 
descriptive  way;  much  less  than  might  indeed  be 
expected  for  deities  to  whom  they  were  so  particu- 
larly obliged.”  1 

What  is  this  but  expressing  surprise  that  the 
poets,  when  they  speak  of  the  muses,  do  not  use  the 
dumb  language  of  the  painter?  In  poetry,  Urania 
is  the  muse  of  astronomy.  Her  name  and  her 
employment  reveal  her  office.  In  art  she  can  be 
recognized  only  by  the  wand  with  which  she  points 
to  a globe  of  the  heavens.  The  wand,  the  globe, 
and  the  attitude  are  the  letters  with  which  the  artist 
spells  out  for  us  the  name  Urania.  But  when  the 
poet  wants  to  say  that  Urania  had  long  read  her 
death  in  the  stars, — 

Ipsa  diu  positis  lethum  praedixerat  astris 
Urania.2 

Why  should  he  add,  out  of  regard  to  the  artist,— 
Urania,  wand  in  hand,  with  the  heavenly  globe 

1 Polyroffis,  dial,  viii*  2 Statius,  Theb.  viii.  551, 


68 


LAOCOON. 


before  her  ? Would  that  not  be  as  if  a man,  with 
the  power  and  privilege  of  speech,  were  to  employ 
the  signs  which  the  mutes  in  a Turkish  seraglio  had 
invented  to  supply  the  want  of  a voice  ? 

Spence  expresses  the  same  surprise  in  regard  to 
the  moral  beings,  or  those  divinities  who,  among  the 
ancients,  presided  over  the  virtues  and  undertook 
the  guidance  of  human  life.1  “It  is  observable/' 
he  says,  “ that  the  Roman  poets  say  less  of  the  best 
of  these  moral  beings  than  might  be  expected.  The 
artists  are  much  fuller  on  this  head ; and  one  who 
would  know  how  they  were  each  set  off  must  go  to 
the  medals  of  the  Roman  emperors.  The  poets, 
in  fact,  speak  of  them  very  often  as  persons ; but 
of  their  attributes,  their  dress,  and  the  rest  of  their 
figure  they  generally  say  but  little.” 

When  a poet  personifies  abstractions  he  suffi- 
ciently indicates  their  character  by  their  name  and 
employment. 

These  means  are  wanting  to  the  artist,  who  must 
therefore  give  to  his  personified  abstractions  certain 
symbols  by  which  they  may  be  recognized.  These 
symbols,  because  they  are  something  else  and  mean 
something  else,  constitute  them  allegorical  figures. 

A female  figure  holding  a bridle  in  her  hand, 
another  leaning  against  a column,  are  allegorical 
beings.  But  in  poetry  Temperance  and  Constancy 
are  not  allegorical  beings,  but  personified  abstrac- 
tions. 

Necessity  invented  these  symbols  for  the  artist, 
1 Polymetis,  dial,  x. 


LAOCOON. 


69 


who  could  not  otherwise  indicate  the  significance  of 
this  or  that  figure.  But  why  should  the  poet,  for 
whom  no  such  necessity  exists,  be  obliged  to  accept 
the  conditions  imposed  upon  the  artist  ? 

What  excites  Spence’s  surprise  should,  in  fact,  be 
prescribed  as  a law  to  all  poets.  They  should  not 
regard  the  limitations  of  painting  as  beauties  in 
their  own  art,  nor  consider  the  expedients  which 
painting  has  invented  in  order  to  keep  pace  with 
poetry,  as  graces  which  they  have  any  reason  to 
envy  her.  By  the  use  of  symbols  the  artist  exalts  a 
mere  figure  into  a being  of  a higher  order.  Should 
the  poet  employ  the  same  artistic  machinery  he 
would  convert  a superior  being  into  a doll. 

Conformity  to  this  rule  was  as  persistently  ob- 
served by  the  ancients  as  its  studious  violation  is 
by  the  viciousness  of  modern  poets.  All  their  imag- 
inary beings  go  masked,  and  the  writers  who  have 
most  skill  in  this  masquerade  generally  understand 
least  the  real  object  of  their  work,  which  is  to  let 
their  personages  act,  and  by  their  actions  reveal 
their  character. 

Among  the  attributes  by  which  the  artist  individ- 
ualizes his  abstractions,  there  is  one  class,  however, 
better  adapted  to  the  poet  than  those  we  have  been 
considering,  and  more  worthy  of  his  use.  I refer  to 
such  as  are  not  strictly  allegorical,  but  may  be 
regarded  as  instruments  which  the  beings  bearing 
them  would  or  could  use,  should  they  ever  come  to 
act  as  real  persons.  The  bridle  in  the  hand  of 
Temperance,  the  pillar  which  supports  Constancy 


70 


LAOCOON. 


are  purely  allegorical,  and  cannot  therefore  be  used 
by  the  poet.  The  scales  in  the  hand  of  Justice  are 
less  so,  because  the  right  use  of  the  scales  is  one  of 
the  duties  of  Justice.  The  lyre  or  flute  in  the  hand 
of  a muse,  the  lance  in  the  hand  of  Mars,  hammer 
and  tongs  in  the  hands  of  Vulcan,  are  not  symbols 
at  all,  but  simply  instruments  without  which  none  of 
the  actions  characteristic  of  these  beings  could  be 
performed.  To  this  class  belong  the  attributes 
sometimes  woven  by  the  old  poets  into  their  descrip- 
tions, and  which,  in  distinction  from  those  that  are 
allegorical,  I would  call  the  poetical.  These  signify 
the  thing  itself,  while  the  others  denote  only  some 
thing  similar.1 


1 See  Appendix,  note  28. 


LAOCOON. 


7 1 


XI. 

Count  Caylus  also  seems  to  require  that  the  poet 
should  deck  out  the  creatures  of  his  imagination 
with  allegorical  attributes.1  The  Count  understood 
painting  better  than  poetry. 

But  other  points  more  worthy  of  remark  have 
struck  me  in  the  same  work  of  his,  some  of  the 
most  important  of  which  I shall  mention  here  for 
closer  consideration. 

The  artist,  in  the  Count’s  opinion,  should  make 
himself  better  acquainted  with  Homer,  that  greatest 
of  all  word  painters,  — that  second  nature,  in  fact. 
He  calls  attention  to  the  rich  and  fresh  material 
furnished  by  the  narrative  of  the  great  Greek,  and 
assures  the  painter  that  the  more  closely  he  follows 
the  poet  in  every  detail,  the  nearer  his  work  will 
approach  to  perfection. 

This  is  confounding  the  two  kinds  of  imitation 
mentioned  above.  The  painter  is  not  only  to  copy 
the  same  thing  that  the  poet  has  copied,  but  he  is 
to  copy  it  with  the  same  touches.  He  is  to  use  the 
poet  not  only  as  narrator,  but  as  poet. 

But  why  is  not  this  second  kind  of  imitation, 

See  Appendix,  note  29. 


72 


LAOCOON. 


which  we  ha  to  found  to  be  degrading  to  the  poet, 
equally  so  to  the  artist?  If  there  had  existed 
previous  to  Homer  such  a series  of  pictures  as  he 
suggests  to  Count  Caylus,  and  we  knew  that  the 
poet  had  composed  his  work  from  them,  would  he 
not  lose  greatly  in  our  estimation  ? Why  should  we 
not  in  like  manner  cease  to  admire  the  artist  who 
should  do  no  more  than  translate  the  words  of  the 
poet  into  form  and  color  ? 

The  reason  I suppose  to  be  this.  In  art  the  diffi- 
culty appears  to  lie  more  in  the  execution  than 
in  the  invention,  while  with  poetry  the  contrary  is 
the  case.  There  the  execution  seems  easy  in  com- 
parison with  the  invention.  Had  Virgil  copied  the 
twining  of  the  serpents  about  Laocoon  and  his  sons 
from  the  marble,  then  his  description  would  lose  its 
chief  merit ; for  what  we  consider  the  more  difficult 
part  had  been  done  for  him.  The  first  conception 
of  this  grouping  in  the  imagination  is  a far  greater 
achievement  than  the  expression  of  it  in  words.  But 
if  the  sculptor  have  borrowed  the  grouping  from  the 
poet,  we  still  consider  him  deserving  of  great  praise, 
although  he  have  not  the  merit  of  the  first  conception. 
For  to  give  expression  in  marble  is  incalculably  more 
difficult  than  to  give  it  in  words.  We  weigh  inven- 
tion and  execution  in  opposite  scales,  and  are  inclined 
to  require  from  the  master  as  much  less  of  one  as 
he  has  given  us  more  of  the  other. 

There  are  even  cases  where  the  artist  deserves 
more  credit  for  copying  Nature  through  the  medium 
of  the  poet’s  imitation  than  directly  from  herself. 


LAOCOON. 


73 


The  painter  who  makes  a beautiful  landscape  from 
the  description  of  a Thomson,  does  more  than  one 
who  takes  his  picture  at  first  hand  from  nature.  The 
latter  sees  his  model  before  him ; the  former  must, 
by  an  effort  of  imagination,  think  he  sees  it.  One 
makes  a beautiful  picture  from  vivid,  sensible  impres- 
sions, the  other  from  the  feeble,  uncertain  represen- 
tations of  arbitrary  signs. 

From  this  natural  readiness  to  excuse  the  artist 
from  the  merit  of  invention,  has  arisen  on  his  part 
an  equally  natural  indifference  to  it.  Perceiving 
that  invention  could  never  be  his  strong  point,  but 
that  his  fame  must  rest  chiefly  on  execution,  he 
ceased  to  care  whether  his  theme  were  new  or  old, 
whether  it  had  been  used  once  or  a hundred  times, 
belonged  to  himself  or  another.  He  kept  within  the 
narrow  range  of  a few  subjects,  grown  familiar  to 
himself  and  the  public,  and  directed  all  his  inven- 
tion to  the  introducing  of  some  change  in  the  treat- 
ment, some  new  combination  of  the  old  objects. 
That  is  actually  the  meaning  attached  to  the  word 
“ invention  ” in  the  old  text-books  on  painting.  For 
although  they  divide  it  into  the  artistic  and  the 
poetic,  yet  even  the  poetic  does  not  extend  to  the 
originating  of  a subject,  but  solely  to  the  arrange- 
ment or  expression.1  It  is  invention,  not  of  the 
whole,  but  of  the  individual  parts  and  their  connec- 
tion with  one  another ; invention  of  that  inferior 
kind  which  Horace  recommended  to  his  tragic  poet : 

1 Betracht  ungen  liber  die  Malerei,  p.  159. 


74 


LAOCOON. 


Tuque 

Rectius  Iliacum  carmen  deducis  in  actus, 

Quam  si  proferres  ignota  indictaque  primus.1 

Recommended,  I say,  but  not  commanded.  He 
recommended  it  as  easier  for  him,  more  convenient, 
more  advantageous : he  did  not  command  it  as 
intrinsically  nobler  and  better. 

The  poet,  indeed,  has  a great  advantage  when  he 
treats  of  familiar  historical  facts  and  well-known 
characters.  He  can  omit  a hundred  tiresome  details 
otherwise  indispensable  to  an  understanding  of  the 
piece.  And  the  sooner  he  is  understood,  the  sooner 
he  can  interest  his  readers.  The  same  advantage  is 
possessed  by  the  painter  when  his  subject  is  so  familiar 
to  us  that  we  take  in  at  a glance  the  meaning  and 
design  of  his  whole  composition,  and  can  not  only 
see  that  his  characters  are  speaking,  but  can  even 
hear  what  they  say.  On  that  first  glance  the  chief 
effect  depends.  If  that  necessitate  a tiresome  guess- 
ing and  pondering,  our  readiness  to  be  touched  is 
chilled.  We  take  revenge  upon  the  unwise  artist  by 
hardening  ourselves  against  his  expression  ; and  alas 
for  him,  if  to  that  expression  he  have  sacrificed 
beauty ! No  inducement  remains  for  us  to  linger 
before  his  work.  What  we  see  does  not  pleaie  us, 
and  what  it  means  we  do  not  understand. 

Considering  now  these  two  points : first,  that 

1 Ad  Pisones,  v.  128-130.  “Thou  wilt  do  better  to  write  out 
in  acts  the  story  of  Troy,  than  to  tell  of  things  not  yet  known 
nor  sung.” 


LAOCOON. 


75 


invention  and  novelty  in  the  subject  are  by  no 
means  what  we  chiefly  require  from  the  painter;  and 
secondly,  that  a familiar  subject  helps  and  quickens 
the  effect  of  his  art,  I think  we  shall  find  a deeper 
reason  for  his  avoidance  of  new  subjects  than  indo- 
lence or  ignorance  or  absorption  of  his  whole  indus- 
try and  time  in  the  mechanical  difficulties  of  his 
art,  which  are  the  causes  assigned  for  it  by  Count 
Caylus.  We  may  even  be  inclined  to  praise  as  a 
wise  and,  as  far  as  we  are  concerned,  a beneficent 
forbearance  on  the  part  of  the  artist,  what  seemed 
to  us  at  first  a deficiency  in  art  and  a curtailment  of 
our  enjoyment. 

I have  no  fear  that  experience  will  contradict  me. 
Painters  will  be  grateful  to  the  Count  for  his  good 
intentions,  but  will  hardly  make  as  general  use  of 
his  advice  as  he  expects.  Should  such,  however,  be 
the  case,  a new  Caylus  would  be  needed  at  the  end 
of  a hundred  years  to  remind  us  of  the  old  themes 
and  recall  the  artist  to  a field  where  others  before 
him  have  reaped  undying  laurels.  Or  shall  we 
expect  the  public  to  be  as  learned  as  the  connois- 
seur with  his  books,  and  familiar  with  all  the  scenes 
of  history  and  fable  that  offer  fit  subjects  for  art  ? 
I grant  that  artists,  since  the  time  of  Raphael, 
would  have  done  better  to  take  Homer  for  their 
manual  than  Ovid.  But  since,  once  for  all,  they 
have  not  done  so,  let  us  leave  the  public  in  its  old 
ruts,  and  not  throw  more  difficulties  in  the  way  of 
its  pleasure  than  are  necessary  to  make  the  pleasure 
worth  having. 


76 


LAOCOON. 


Protogenes  had  painted  the  mother  of  Aristotle. 
I know  not  how  much  the  philosopher  paid  for  the 
picture,  but  instead  of  the  full  payment,  or  perhaps 
over  and  above  it,  he  gave  the  painter  a piece  of 
advice  which  was  of  more  value  than  the  money. 
Not,  as  I believe,  in  the  way  of  flattery,  but  because 
he  knew  that  art  needed  to  make  itself  universally 
intelligible,  he  advised  him  to  paint  the  exploits  of 
Alexander.  The  whole  world  was  ringing  with  the 
fame  of  them,  and  he  could  foresee  that  their  mem- 
ory would  remain  to  all  posterity.  But  Protogenes 
was  not  wise  enough  to  follow  this  counsel.  “ Impe- 
tus animi,”  says  Pliny,  “ et  quasdam  artis  libido,”  1 
a certain  presumption  in  art,  and  a craving  after 
something  new  and  strange,  led  him  to  the  choice  of 
other  subjects.  He  preferred  the  story  of  lalysus,2 
of  Cydippe,  and  others  of  like  kind,  whose  meaning 
we  can  now  scarce  even  conjecture. 

1 Lib.  xxxv.  sect.  36.  2 See  Appendix,  note  3a 


LAOCOON. 


77 


XII. 

Homer  treats  of  two  different  classes  of  beings  and 
actions, — the  visible  and  the  invisible.  This  dis- 
tinction cannot  be  made  on  canvas,  where  every 
thing  is  visible,  and  visible  in  precisely  the  same 
way. 

When  Count  Caylus,  therefore,  makes  pictures  of 
invisible  actions  follow  immediately  upon  pictures 
of  visible  ones  ; and  in  scenes  of  mixed  actions,  par- 
ticipated in  by  beings  of  both  kinds,  does  not,  and 
perhaps  cannot,  indicate  how  those  figures  which 
only  we  who  look  at  the  picture  are  supposed  to  see, 
shall  be  so  represented  that  the  characters  in  the 
picture  shall  not  see  them,  or  at  least  shall  not  look 
as  if  they  could  not  help  seeing  them,  he  makes  the 
whole  series,  as  well  as  many  separate  pictures,  in 
the  highest  degree  confused,  unintelligible,  and  self- 
contradictory. 

With  the  book  before  us  this  difficulty  might  finally 
be  overcome.  The  great  objection  would  be  that, 
with  the  loss  of  all  distinction  to  the  eye  between 
the  visible  and  the  invisible  beings,  all  the  charac- 
teristic traits  must  likewise  disappear,  which  serve 
to  elevate  the  higher  order  of  beings  above  the 
lower. 


73 


LAOCOON. 


When,  for  instance,  the  gods  who  take  different 
sides  in  the  Trojan  war  come  at  last  to  actual  blows, 
the  contest  goes  on  in  the  poem  unseen.1  This 
invisibility  leaves  the  imagination  free  play  to  enlarge 
the  scene  at  will,  and  picture  the  gods  and  their 
movements  on  a scale  far  grander  than  the  measure 
of  common  humanity.  But  painting  must  accept  a 
visible  theatre,  whose  various  fixed  parts  become 
a scale  of  measurement  for  the  persons  acting  upon 
it.  This  scale  is  always  before  the  eye,  and  the 
disproportionate  size  of  any  superhuman  figures 
makes  beings  that  were  grand  in  the  poem  mon- 
strous on  canvas. 

Minerva,  on  whom  Mars  had  made  the  first  attack, 
steps  backward  and  with  mighty  hand  lifts  from  the 
ground  an  enormous  stone,  black  and  rough,  which, 
in  old  times,  had  required  the  strength  of  many 
men  to  be  rolled  into  its  place  and  set  up  as  a land- 
mark.2 

rj  5’  dva%aG6a[A8vt]  ll&ov  eiIeto  %elqI  Tta^iTj 
XEifisvov  8V  Ttedicp,  (Aslava,  t qtj%vv  ts  [isyav  r £, 
t ov  q dvdijsg  TtQOisgoi  d taav  8[i{A,8vai  ovqov  dgovg^g' 

To  obtain  an  adequate  idea  of  the  size  of  this  stone, 
we  must  remember  that  Homer  makes  his  heroes 
twice  as  strong  as  the  mightiest  men  of  his  day,  yet 

Iliad  xxi.  385. 

* She  only  stepped 

Backward  a space,  and  with  her  powerful  hand 
Lifted  a stone  that  lay  upon  the  plain, 

Black,  huge,  and  jagged,  which  the  men  of  old 
Had  placed  there  for  a landmark.  — Bryant. 


LAOCOON. 


79 


says  they  were  far  surpassed  in  strength  by  the  men 
whom  Nestor  had  known  in  his  youth.  Now  if 
Minerva  is  to  hurl  at  Mars  a stone  which  it  had 
required,  not  one  man,  but  many  men  of  the  time  of 
Nestor’s  youth  to  set  up  as  a landmark,  what,  I ask, 
should  be  the  stature  of  the  goddess  ? If  her  size 
be  proportioned  to  that  of  the  stone,  all  marvel 
ceases.  A being  of  thrice  my  size  can,  of  course, 
throw  three  times  as  large  a stone.  But  if  the 
stature  of  the  goddess  be  not  proportioned  to  the 
size  of  the  stone,  the  result  is  a palpable  improba- 
bility in  the  picture  which  cannot  be  atoned  for  by 
the  cold  consideration  that  a goddess  is  necessarily 
of  supernatural  strength. 

Mars,  overthrown  by  this  enormous  stone,  cov- 
ered seven  hides,- — 

htlOL  5’  87t8G%S  mT.sd'QCC  7186  (OV. 

It  is  impossible  for  the  painter  to  give  the  god  this 
extraordinary  size.  Yet  if  he  do  not,  we  have  no 
Homeric  Mars  lying  on  the  ground,  but  an  ordinary 
warrior.1 

Longinus  says,  it  has  often  seemed  to  him  that 
Homer’s  design  was  to  raise  his  men  to  gods  and 
degrade  his  deities  to  men.  Painting  accomplishes 
this.  On  canvas  we  lose  every  thing  which  in 
poetry  exalts  the  gods  above  mere  godlike  men. 
Size,  strength,  speed,  — qualities  which  Homer  has 
always  in  store  for  his  gods  in  miraculous  measure, 
far  surpassing  any  thing  he  attributes  to  his  most 


1 See  Appendix,  no*e  31. 


So 


LAOCOON. 


famous  heroes,1  — are  necessarily  reduced  in  the 
picture  to  the  common  scale  of  humanity.  Jupiter 
and  Agamemnon,  Apollo  and  Achilles,  Ajax  and 
Mars,  are  all  kindred  beings,  only  to  be  distinguished 
by  some  arbitrary  outward  sign. 

The  expedient  to  which  painters  have  recourse  to 
indicate  that  a certain  character  is  supposed  to  be 
invisible,  is  a thin  cloud  veiling  the  side  of  the  figure 
that  is  turned  towards  the  other  actors  on  the  scene. 
This  cloud  seems  at  first  to  be  borrowed  from 
Homer  himself.  For,  when  in  the  confusion  of 
battle  one  of  the  chief  heroes  becomes  exposed  to  a 
danger  from  which  nothing  short  of  divine  aid  can 
save  him,  the  poet  makes  his  guardian  deity  veil  him 
in  a thick  cloud  or  in  darkness,  and  so  lead  him 
from  the  field.  Paris  is  thus  delivered  by  Venus,4 
Idaeus  by  Neptune,3  Hector  by  Apollo.4  Caylus 
never  omits  strongly  to  recommend  to  the  artist  this 
mist  or  cloud,  whenever  he  is  to  paint  pictures  of 
such  occurrences.  But  who  does  not  perceive  that 
this  veiling  in  mist  and  darkness  is  only  the  poet’s 
way  of  saying  that  the  hero  became  invisible?  It 
always  seems  strange  to  me,  therefore,  to  find  this 
poetical  expression  embodied  in  a picture,  and  an 
actual  cloud  introduced,  behind  which,  as  behind  a 
screen,  the  hero  stands  hidden  from  his  enemy. 
This  was  not  the  poet’s  meaning.  The  artist  in  this 
exceeds  the  limits  ot  painting.  His  cloud  is  a 
hieroglyphic,  a purely  symbolic  sign,  which  does  not 

1 See  Appendix,  note  32.  2 Iliad  iii.  381. 

8 Iliad  v.  23.  4 Iliad  xx.  444. 


LAOCOON. 


81 


make  the  rescued  hero  invisible,  but  simply  says 
to  the  observers,  — “You  are  to  suppose  this  man 
to  be  invisible.”  It  is  no  better  than  the  rolls  of 
paper  with  sentences  upon  them,  which  issue  from 
the  mouth  of  personages  in  the  old  Gothic  pictures. 

Homer,  to  be  sure,  makes  Achilles  give  three 
thrusts  with  his  lance  at  the  thick  cloud1  while 
Apollo  is  carrying  off  Hector,  — rgig  d’  rj8Q(t  rvipz 
§a&slav.  But  that,  in  the  language  of  poetry,  only 
means  that  Achilles  was  so  enraged  that  he  thrust 
three  times  with  his  lance  before  perceiving  that  his 
enemy  was  no  longer  before  him.  Achilles  saw  no 
actual  cloud.  The  whole  secret  of  this  invisibility 
lay  not  in  the  cloud,  but  in  the  god’s  swift  with- 
drawal of  the  imperilled  hero.  In  order  to  indicate 
that  the  withdrawal  took  place  so  instantaneously 
that  no  human  eye  could  follow  the  retreating  form, 
the  poet  begins  by  throwing  over  his  hero  a cloud ; 
not  because  the  by-standers  saw  the  cloud  in  the 
place  of  the  vanished  shape,  but  because  to  oui 
mind  things  in  a cloud  are  invisible. 

The  opposite  device  is  sometimes  used,  and,  instead 
of  the  object  being  made  invisible,  the  subject  is  smit- 
ten with  blindness.  Thus  Neptune  blinds  the  eyes 
of  Achilles  when  he  rescues  ./Eneas  from  his  mur- 
derous hands  by  transporting  him  from  the  thick  of 
the  contest  to  the  rear.2  In  reality,  the  eyes  of 
Achilles  were  no  more  blinded  in  the  one  case  than 
in  the  other  the  rescued  heroes  were  veiled  in  a 
cloud.  Both  are  mere  expressions  employed  by  the 
1 Iliad  xx,  446.  2 Iliad  xx.  321. 


6 


82 


LAOCOON. 


poet  to  impress  more  vividly  on  our  minds  the 
extreme  rapidity  of  the  removal ; the  disappearance, 
as  we  should  call  it. 

But  artists  have  appropriated  the  Homeric  mist  not 
only  in  those  cases  of  concealment  or  disappearance 
where  Homer  himself  employed  or  would  have  em- 
ployed it,  but  in  cases  where  the  spectator  was  to 
perceive  something  which  the  characters  on  the  can- 
vas, or  some  of  them  at  least,  were  not  to  be  con- 
scious of.  Minerva  was  visible  to  Achilles  only, 
when  she  restrained  him  from  committing  violence 
against  Agamemnon.  “ I know  no  other  way  of 
expressing  this,”  says  Caylus,  “than  to  interpose  a 
cloud  between  the  goddess  and  the  other  members 
of  the  council.”  This  is  entirely  contrary  to  the 
spirit  of  the  poet.  Invisibility  was  the  natural 
condition  of  his  deities.  So  far  from  any  stroke 
of  blindness  or  intercepting  of  the  rays  of  light 
being  necessary  to  render  them  invisible,1  a special 
illumination,  an  increased  power  of  human  vision 
was  needed  to  see  them.  Not  only,  therefore,  is 
this  cloud  an  arbitrary  and  not  a natural  symbol  in 
painting,  but  it  does  not  possess  the  clearness  which, 
as  an  arbitrary  sign,  it  should.  It  has  a double 
meaning,  being  employed  as  well  to  make  the  invis- 
ible visible  as  to  render  the  visible  invisible. 


1 See  Appendix,  note  33. 


LAOCOON. 


83 


XIII. 

If  Homer’s  works  were  completely  destroyed,  and 
nothing  remained  of  the  Iliad  and  Odyssey  but  this 
series  of  pictures  proposed  by  Caylus,  should  we 
from  these  — even  supposing  them  to  be  executed 
by  the  best  masters  — form  the  same  idea  that  we 
now  have  of  the  poet’s  descriptive  talent  alone, 
setting  aside  all  his  other  qualities  as  a poet? 

Let  us  take  the  first  piece  that  comes  to  hand,  — 
the  picture  of  the  plague.1  What  do  we  see  on  the 
canvas  ? Dead  bodies,  the  flame  of  funeral  pyres, 
the  dying  busied  with  the  dead,  the  angry  god  upon 
a cloud  discharging  his  arrows.  The  profuse  wealth 
of  the  picture  becomes  poverty  in  the  poet.  Should 
we  attempt  to  restore  the  text  of  Homer  from  this 
picture,  what  can  we  make  him  say  ? “ Thereupon 

the  wrath  of  Apollo  was  kindled,  and  he  shot  his 
arrows  among  the  Grecian  army.  Many  Greeks 
died,  and  their  bodies  were  burned.”  Now  let  us 
turn  to  Homer  himself:1 

1 Iliad  i.  44-53.  Tableaux  tires  de  l’lliade,  p.  70. 

Down  he  came, 

Down  from  the  summit  of  the  Olympian  mount, 
Wrathful  in  heart;  his  shoulders  bore  the  bow 
And  hollow  quiver ; there  the  arrows  rang 
Upon  the  shoulders  of  the  angry  god, 

As  on  he  moved.  He  came  as  comes  the  night. 


84 


LAOCOON. 


\Q(?  expat  evyogevog^  zov  8’  exlve  ftolflog  AnollmVf 
fltj  8e  xaz  Ovlv^iitoio  xagryvasv  ycoopievog  xtjg, 
ro%  oopioiGiv  eycov  dptqiqgeqte'a  zs  qjagezgrjv. 
exluylgav  8"  dg  oiazol  tit  apicov  ycoopievoio, 
avzov  xirgdevzog’  6 8’  r[ie  vvxzl  toixcog. 
e&z’  eiteiz  dmivevde  veojv,  fiszd  8 ’ iov  erjycsv 
8eivt]  8 e xlayyrj  yevez  agyvgeoio  fliolo. 
ovgtjag  piev  Ttgdozov  tmgyezo  xal  xvvag  dgyovg, 
avzdg  eiteiz  avzoTai  flelog  eyenevxeg  tqnetg 
flail’’  aisi  8e  itvgal  vexvwv  xaiovzo  {XapieiaL 


The  poet  here  is  as  far  beyond  the  painter,  as  life  is 
better  than  a picture.  Wrathful,  with  bow  and 
quiver,  Apollo  descends  from  the  Olympian  towers. 
I not  only  see  him,  but  hear  him.  At  every  step  the 
arrows  rattle  on  the  shoulders  of  the  angry  god. 
He  enters  among  the  host  like  the  night.  Now  he 
seats  himself  over  against  the  ships,  and,  with  a 
terrible  clang  of  the  silver  bow,  sends  his  first  shaft 
against  the  mules  and  dogs.  Next  he  turns  his 
poisoned  darts  upon  the  warriors  themselves,  and 
unceasing  blaze  on  every  side  the  corpse-laden  pyres. 
It  is  impossible  to  translate  into  any  other  language 
the  musical  painting  heard  in  the  poet’s  words. 
Equally  impossible  would  it  be  to  infer  it  from  the 
canvas.  Yet  this  is  the  least  of  the  advantages 

And,  seated  from  the  ships  aloof,  sent  forth 

An  arrow  ; terrible  was  heard  the  clang 

Of  that  resplendent  bow.  At  first  he  smote 

The  mules  and  the  swift  dogs,  and  then  on  man 

He  turned  the  deadly  arrow.  All  around 

Glared  evermore  the  frequent  funeral  piles.  — Bryant. 


LAOCOON. 


85 


possessed  by  the  poetical  picture.  Its  chief  supe- 
riority is  that  it  leads  us  through  a whole  gallery  of 
pictures  up  to  the  point  depicted  by  the  artist. 

But  the  plague  is  perhaps  not  a favorable  subject 
for  a picture.  Take  the  council  of  the  gods,1  which 
is  more  particularly  addressed  to  the  eye.  An  open 
palace  of  gold,  groups  of  the  fairest  and  most 
majestic  forms,  goblet  in  hand,  served  by  eternal 
youth  in  the  person  of  Hebe.  What  architecture ! 
what  masses  of  light  and  shade ! what  contrasts ! 
what  variety  of  expression ! Where  shall  I begin, 
where  cease,  to  feast  my  eyes  ? If  the  painter  thus 
enchant  me,  how  much  more  will  the  poet ! I open 
the  book  and  find  myself  deceived.  I read  four 
good,  plain  lines,  which  might  very  appropriately  be 
written  under  the  painting.  They  contain  material 
for  a picture,  but  are  in  themselves  none.1 

Ol  8s  ftsol  naQ  ZtjvI  xa&rjpevoi  riyoQomzo 
XQvaeco  sv  8a7zs8co,  \iszu  8s  cyiai  nozvicc  "Hfii] 
rsxrciQ  scpvoyosr  zol  8s  yQvas'oig  Ssnascaiv 
8si8syaz  alhjlovg,  Tqcocov  nokiv  eiGOQOcavzsg. 

Apollonius,  or  a more  indifferent  poet  still,  would 
not  have  said  it  worse.  Here  Homer  is  as  far 
behind  the  artist  as,  in  the  former  instance,  he  sur- 
passed him. 

1 Iliad  iv.  1-4.  Tableaux  tires  de  l’lliade,  p.  3a 
Meantime  the  immortal  gods  with  Jupiter 
Upon  his  golden  pavement  sat  and  held 
A council.  Hebe,  honored  of  them  all, 

Ministered  nectar,  and  from  cups  of  gold 
They  pledged  each  other,  looking  down  on  Troy. 

Bryant, 


86 


LAOCOON. 


Yet,  except  in  these  four  lines,  Caylus  finds  no 
single  picture  in  the  whole  fourth  book  of  the  Iliad. 
“ Rich  as  this  book  is,”  he  says,  “ in  its  manifold 
exhortations  to  battle,  in  the  abundance  of  its  con- 
spicuous and  contrasting  characters,  in  the  skill 
with  which  the  masses  to  be  set  in  motion  are 
brought  before  us,  it  is  yet  entirely  unavailable  for 
painting.”  “ Rich  as  it  otherwise  is,”  he  might  have 
added,  “in  what  are  called  poetic  pictures.”  For 
surely  in  this  fourth  book  we  find  as  many  such 
pictures,  and  as  perfect,  as  in  any  of  the  whole 
poem.  Where  is  there  a more  detailed,  a more 
striking  picture  than  that  of  Pandarus  breaking  the 
truce  at  the  instigation  of  Minerva,  and  discharging 
his  arrow  at  Menelaus?  than  that  of  the  advance 
of  the  Grecian  army  ? or  of  the  mutual  attack  ? or 
of  the  deed  of  Ulysses,  whereby  he  avenges  the 
death  of  his  friend  Leucus? 

What  must  we  conclude,  except  that  not  a few  of 
the  finest  pictures  in  Homer  are  no  pictures  for  the 
artist  ? that  the  artist  can  extract  pictures  from  him 
where  he  himself  has  none?  that  such  of  his  as 
the  artist  can  use  would  be  poor  indeed  did  they 
show  us  no  more  than  we  see  on  the  canvas  ? what, 
in  short,  but  a negative  answer  to  my  question? 
Painted  pictures  drawn  from  the  poems  of  Homer, 
however  numerous  and  however  admirable  they  may 
be,  can  give  us  no  idea  of  the  descriptive  talent  of 
the  poet 


LAOCOON. 


*7 


XIV. 

If  it,  then,  be  true  that  a poem  not  in  itself  pic- 
turesque may  yet  be  rich  in  subjects  for  an  artist, 
while  another  in  a high  degree  picturesque  may 
yield  him  nothing,  this  puts  an  end  to  the  theory 
of  Count  Caylus,  that  the  test  of  a poem  is  its  avail- 
ability for  the  artist,  and  that  a poet’s  rank  should 
depend  upon  the  number  of  pictures  he  supplies  to 
the  painter.1 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  give  this  theory  even  the 
sanction  of  our  silence.  Milton  would  be  the  first 
to  fall  an  innocent  victim.  Indeed,  the  contemptu- 
ous judgment  which  Caylus  passes  upon  the  English 
poet  would  seem  to  be  the  result  not  so  much  of 
national  taste  as  of  this  assumed  rule.  Milton  re- 
sembles Homer,  he  says,  in  little  excepting  loss  of 
sight.  Milton,  it  is  true,  can  fill  no  picture  galleries. 
But  if,  so  long  as  I retained  my  bodily  eye,  its  sphere 
must  be  the  measure  of  my  inward  vision,  then  I 
should  esteem  its  loss  a gain,  as  freeing  me  from 
such  limitations. 

The  fact  that  “ Paradise  Lost  ” furnishes  few  sub- 
jects for  a painter  no  more  prevents  it  from  being 
the  greatest  epic  since  Homer,  than  the  story  of 

1 See  Appendix,  note  34. 


88 


L A.OCOON. 


the  passion  of  Christ  becomes  a poem,  because  you 
can  hardly  insert  the  head  of  a pin  in  any  part  of 
the  narrative  without  touching  some  passage  which 
has  employed  a crowd  of  the  greatest  artists.  The 
evangelists  state  their  facts  with  the  dryest  possible 
simplicity,  and  the  painter  uses  their  various  details 
while  the  narrators  themselves  manifested  not  the 
smallest  spark  of  genius  for  the  picturesque.  There 
are  picturesque  and  unpicturesque  facts,  and  the 
historian  may  relate  the  most  picturesque  without 
picturesqueness,  as  the  poet  can  make  a picture  of 
those  least  adapted  to  the  painter’s  use. 

To  regard  the  matter  otherwise  is  to  allow  our- 
selves to  be  misled  by  the  double  meaning  of  a 
word.  A picture  in  poetry  is  not  necessarily  one 
which  can  be  transferred  to  canvas.  But  every 
touch,  or  every  combination  of  touches,  by  means 
of  which  the  poet  brings  his  subject  so  fividly  be- 
fore us  that  we  are  more  conscious  of  the  subject 
than  of  his  words,  is  picturesque,  and  makes  what 
we  call  a picture ; that  is,  it  produces  that  degree 
of  illusion  which  a painted  picture  is  peculiarly  quali- 
fied to  excite,  and  which  we  in  fact  most  frequently 
and  naturally  experience  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
painted  canvas.1 


1 See  Appendix,  note  35. 


LAOCOON. 


89 


XV. 

Experience  shows  that  the  poet  can  produce  this 
degree  of  illusion  by  the  representation  of  other  than 
visible  objects.  He  therefore  has  at  his  command 
whole  classes  of  subjects  which  elude  the  artist. 
Dryden’s  “Ode  on  Cecilia’s  Day”  is  full  of  musi- 
cal pictures,  but  gives  no  employment  to  the  brush. 
But  I will  not  lose  myself  in  examples  of  this  kind, 
for  they  after  all  teach  us  little  more  than  that  colors 
are  not  tones,  and  ears  not  eyes. 

I will  confine  myself  to  pictures  of  visible  objects, 
available  alike  to  poet  and  painter.  What  is  the 
reason  that  many  poetical  pictures  of  this  class  are 
unsuitable  for  the  painter,  while  many  painted  pic- 
tures lose  their  chief  effect  in  the  hands  of  the 
poet  ? 

Examples  may  help  us.  I revert  to  the  picture 
of  Pandarus  in  the  fourth  book  of  the  Iliad,  as  one 
of  the  most  detailed  and  graphic  in  all  Homer. 
From  the  seizing  of  the  bow  to  the  flight  of  the  arrow 
every  incident  is  painted ; and  each  one  follows  its 
predecessor  so  closely,  and  yet  is  so  distinct  from 
it,  that  a person  who  knew  nothing  of  the  use  of 
a bow  could  learn  it  from  this  picture  alone.1  Pan- 

1 See  Appendix,  note  36. 


90 


LA0C00N. 


dams  brings  forth  his  bow,  attaches  the  string,  opens 
the  quiver,  selects  a well-feathered  arrow  never 
before  used,  adjusts  the  notch  of  the  arrow  to  the 
string,  and  draws  back  both  string  and  arrow ; 
the  string  approaches  his  breast,  the  iron  point  of 
the  arrow  nears  the  bow,  the  great  arched  bow 
springs  back  with  a mighty  twang,  the  cord  rings, 
and  away  leaps  the  eager  arrow  speeding  towards 
the  mark. 

Caylus  cannot  have  overlooked  this  admirable 
picture.  What,  then,  did  he  find  which  made  him 
judge  it  no  fitting  subject  for  an  artist  ? And  what 
in  the  council  and  carousal  of  the  gods  made  that 
seem  more  adapted  to  his  purpose?  The  subjects 
are  visible  in  one  case  as  in  the  other,  and  what 
more  does  the  painter  need  for  his  canvas? 

The  difficulty  must  be  this.  Although  both  themes, 
as  representing  visible  objects,  are  equally  adapted 
to  painting,  there  is  this  essential  difference  between 
them : one  is  a visible  progressive  action,  the  various 
parts  of  which  follow  one  another  in  time ; the 
other  is  a visible  stationary  action,  the  development 
of  whose  various  parts  takes  place  in  space.  Since 
painting,  because  its  signs  or  means  of  imitation 
can  be  combined  only  in  space,  must  relinquish  all 
representations  of  time,  therefore  progressive  actions, 
as  such,  cannot  come  within  its  range.  It  must 
content  itself  with  actions  in  space ; in  other  words, 
with  mere  bodies,  whose  attitude  lets  us  infer  their 
action.  Poetry,  on  the  contrary  — 


LAOCOON. 


91 


XVI. 

But  I will  try  to  prove  my  conclusions  by  starting 
from  first  principles. 

I argue  thus.  If  it  be  true  that  painting  employs 
wholly  different  signs  or  means  of  imitation  from 
poetry,  — the  one  using  forms  and  colors  in  space, 
the  other  articulate  sounds  in  time,  — and  if  signs 
must  unquestionably  stand  in  convenient  relation 
with  the  thing  signified,  then  signs  arranged  side  by 
side  can  represent  only  objects  existing  side  by  side, 
or  whose  parts  so  exist,  while  consecutive  signs  can 
express  only  objects  which  succeed  each  other,  or 
whose  parts  succeed  each  other,  in  time. 

Objects  which  exist  side  by  side,  or  whose  parts 
so  exist,  are  called  bodies.  Consequently  bodies 
with  their  visible  properties  are  the  peculiar  subjects 
of  painting. 

Objects  which  succeed  each  other,  or  whose  parts 
succeed  each  other  in  time,  are  actions.  Conse- 
quently actions  are  the  peculiar  subjects  of  poetry. 

All  bodies,  however,  exist  not  only  in  space,  but 
also  in  time.  They  continue,  and,  at  any  moment  of 
their  continuance,  may  assume  a different  appear- 
ance and  stand  in  different  relations.  Every  one  of 
these  momentary  appearances  and  groupings  was 
the  result  of  a preceding,  may  become  the  cause  of 


92 


LAOCOON. 


a following,  and  is  therefore  the  centre  of  a present, 
action.  Consequently  painting  can  imitate  actions 
also,  but  only  as  they  are  suggested  through  forms. 

Actions,  on  the  other  hand,  cannot  exist  indepen- 
dently, but  must  always  be  joined  to  certain  agents. 
In  so  far  as  those  agents  are  bodies  or  are  regarded 
as  such,  poetry  describes  also  bodies,  but  only  indi- 
rectly through  actions. 

Painting,  in  its  coexistent  compositions,  can  use 
but  a single  moment  of  an  action,  and  must  there- 
fore choose  the  most  pregnant  one,  the  one  most 
suggestive  of  what  has  gone  before  and  what  is  to 
follow. 

Poetry,  in  its  progressive  imitations,  can  use  but  a 
single  attribute  of  bodies,  and  must  choose  that  one 
which  gives  the  most  vivid  picture  of  the  body  as 
exercised  in  this  particular  action. 

Hence  the  rule  for  the  employment  of  a single 
descriptive  epithet,  and  the  cause  of  the  rare  occur- 
rence of  descriptions  of  physical  objects. 

I should  place  less  confidence  in  this  dry  chain  of 
conclusions,  did  I not  find  them  fully  confirmed  by 
Homer,  or,  rather,  had  they  not  been  first  suggested 
to  me  by  Homer’s  method.  These  principles  alone 
furnish  a key  to  the  noble  style  of  the  Greek,  and 
enable  us  to  pass  just  judgment  on  the  opposite 
method  of  many  modern  poets  who  insist  upon 
emulating  the  artist  in  a point  where  they  must  of 
necessity  remain  inferior  to  him. 

I find  that  Homer  paints  nothing  but  progressive 
actions.  All  bodies,  all  separate  objects,  are  painted 


LAOCOON. 


93 


only  as  they  take  part  in  such  actions,  and  generally 
with  a single  touch.  No  wonder,  then,  that  artists 
find  in  Homer’s  pictures  little  or  nothing  to  their  pur- 
pose, and  that  their  only  harvest  is  where  the  narra- 
tion brings  together  in  a space  favorable  to  art  a 
number  of  beautiful  shapes  in  graceful  attitudes,  how- 
ever little  the  poet  himself  may  have  painted  shapes, 
attitudes,  or  space.  If  we  study  one  by  one  the  whole 
series  of  pictures  proposed  by  Caylus,  we  shall  in 
every  case  find  proof  of  the  justness  of  these  conclu- 
sions. 

Here,  then,  I leave  the  Count  with  his  desire  to 
make  the  painter’s  color-stone  the  touchstone  of  the 
poet,  and  proceed  to  examine  more  closely  the  style 
of  Homer. 

For  a single  thing,  as  I have  said,  Homer  has 
commonly  but  a single  epithet.  A ship  is  to  him  at 
one  time  the  black  ship,  at  another  the  hollow  ship, 
and  again  the  swift  ship.  At  most  it  is  the  well- 
manned  black  ship.  Further  painting  of  the  ship 
he  does  not  attempt.  But  of  the  ship’s  sailing,  its 
departure  and  arrival,  he  makes  so  detailed  a pict- 
ure, that  the  artist  would  have  to  paint  five  or  six,  to 
put  the  whole  upon  his  canvas. 

If  circumstances  compel  Homer  to  fix  our  atten- 
tion for  a length  of  time  on  any  one  object,  he  still 
makes  no  picture  of  it  which  an  artist  can  follow 
with  his  brush.  By  countless  devices  he  presents 
this  single  object  in  a series  of  moments,  in  every 
one  of  which  it  assumes  a different  form.  Only  in 
the  final  one  can  the  painter  seize  it,  and  show  us 


94 


LAOCOON. 


ready  made  what  the  artist  has  been  showing  us  in 
the  making.  If  Homer,  for  instance,  wants  us  to 
see  the  chariot  of  Juno,  Hebe  must  put  it  together 
piece  by  piece  before  our  eyes.  We  see  the  wheels, 
the  axle,  the  seat,  the  pole,  the  traces  and  straps, 
not  already  in  place,  but  as  they  come  together 
under  Hebe’s  hands.  The  wheels  are  the  only  part 
on  which  the  poet  bestows  more  than  a single 
epithet.  He  shows  us  separately  the  eight  brazen 
spokes,  the  golden  fellies,  the  tires  of  brass,  and 
the  silver  nave.  It  would  almost  seem  that,  as 
there  was  more  than  one  wheel,  he  wished  to  spend 
as  much  more  time  in  the  description  as  the  putting 
on  would  require  in  reality.1 

vH@rj  8’  dpi cp’  oysscai  ftoag  fials  aapiTivXa  xvxla, 
Xulxecc  oxzaxvrjpia,  giStjqsco  u^om  dpicpig. 
zojv  rfioi  XQVGttj  i'zvg  aqi&izog , avzccQ  i 'rtSQ&ev 

smGGcozQa  TtQOGaQTjQOza , davfia  iSsG&ar 
Ttlrjfivai  8'  aQyvQOv  eial  mQidQOfxoi  dfxcpozsQcod^ev* 
dlcpQog  8s  'iQvasoiai  y.al  aQyvQsoiGiv  ipiuGiv 
tvzszazai,  8oiai  8s  ttsqi8qo(ioi  uvzvysg  slaiv . 

* Iliad  v.  722. 

Hebe  rolled  the  wheels, 

Each  with  eight  spokes,  and  joined  them  to  the  ends 
Of  the  steel  axle, —fellies  wrought  of  gold, 

Bound  with  a brazen  rim  to  last  for  ages,— 

A wonder  to  behold.  The  hollow  naves 
Were  silver,  and  on  gold  and  silver  cords 
Was  slung  the  chariot’s  seat ; in  silver  hooks 
Rested  the  reins  ; and  silver  was  the  pole 
Where  the  fair  yoke  and  poitrels,  all  of  gold. 

She  fastened.  — Bryant. 


LAOCOON. 


95 


zov  8*  tig  dgyvQSog  (wfxog  nsXsv  avzdg  sn  dxQCp 
8j}gs  xqvgeiov  xaXov  <gvyov,  tv  8s  Xtnadva 
v.aX  sfiaXe,  iqvcei' 

When  Homer  wishes  to  tell  us  how  Agamemnon 
was  dressed,  he  makes  the  king  put  on  every  article 
of  raiment  in  our  presence : the  soft  tunic,  the  great 
mantle,  the  beautiful  sandals,  and  the  sword.  When 
he  is  thus  fully  equipped  he  grasps  his  sceptre.  We 
see  the  clothes  while  the  poet  is  describing  the  act 
of  dressing.  An  inferior  writer  would  have  described 
the  clothes  down  to  the  minutest  fringe,  and  of  the 
action  we  should  have  seen  nothing.1 

fiaXaxov  8'  evSvrs  yizmvct, 
xaXov  VTjyarsov , nsQi  ds  fisya  fidXXszo  cpagog' 
noaal  8'  vno  hnagoiaiv  edrjaaro  xcda  ns8daf 
dfxqjl  8'  ctQ  djfioiaiv  fidlezo  fy'qpog  doyvQOrjXov. 
siXszo  8s  GxrjnzQOv  nazgcoiov , dyxhzov  aisi 

How  does  he  manage  when  he  desires  to  give  a 
more  full  and  minute  picture  of  the  sceptre,  which  is 
here  called  only  ancestral  and  undecaying,  as  a 
similar  one  in  another  place  is  only  %Qvosoig  ijXoiat 
rtendQftsvov,  — ■ golden-studded  ? Does  he  paint  for 

us,  besides  the  golden  nails,  the  wood,  and  the 

1 Iliad  ii.  43-47. 

He  sat  upright  and  put  his  tunic  on, 

Soft,  fair,  and  new,  and  over  that  he  cast 

His  ample  cloak,  and  round  his  shapely  feet 

Laced  the  becoming  sandals.  Next,  he  hung 

Upon  his  shoulders  and  his  side  the  sword 

With  silver  studs,  and  took  into  his  hand 

The  ancestral  sceptre,  old  but  undecayed.  — Bryant 


96 


LAOCOON. 


carved  head  ? He  might  have  done  so,  had  he  been 
writing  a description  for  a book  of  heraldry,  from 
which  at  some  later  day  an  exact  copy  was  to  be  made. 
Yet  I have  no  doubt  that  many  a modern  poet 
would  have  given  such  heraldic  description  in  the 
honest  belief  that  he  was  really  making  a picture 
himself,  because  he  was  giving  the  painter  material 
for  one.  But  what  does  Homer  care  how  far  he  out- 
strips the  painter  ? Instead  of  a copy,  he  gives  us 
the  history  of  the  sceptre.  First  we  see  it  in  the 
workshop  of  Vulcan  ; then  it  shines  in  the  hands  of 
Jupiter;  now  it  betokens  the  dignity  of  Mercury; 
now  it  is  the  baton  of  warlike  Pelops ; and  again 
the  shepherd’s  staff  of  peace-loving  Atreus.1 


GxijjtTgOVy  to  fitv  ''HycuGxog  xupis  xevymv’ 
"HopcaGTog  /xsv  dmxs  /id  Kgoviowi  avaxxi, 
avxag  ago.  Zsvg  dooxe  diaxxogco  Jlgyutyovrift' 

* Egpiuag  ds  aval-  dojxsv  TUXotu  TtlrfeiTtTtcp, 
avxdg  6 avxe  Ilslotp  doox  *Axgu,  nogitvi  lacof 


1 Iliad  ii.  101-108. 

He  held 

The  sceptre;  Vulcan’s  skill  had  fashioned  it, 

And  Vulcan  gave  it  to  Saturnian  Jove, 

And  Jove  bestowed  it  on  his  messenger, 

The  Argus-queller  Hermes.  He  in  turn 
Gave  it  to  Pelops,  great  in  horsemanship ; 

And  Pelops  passed  the  gift  to  Atreus  next, 

The  people’s  shepherd.  Atreus,  when  he  died. 
Bequeathed  it  to  Thyestes,  rich  in  flocks  ; 

And  last,  Thyestes  left  it  to  be  borne 

By  Agamemnon,  symbol  of  his  rule 

O’er  many  isles  and  all  the  Argive  realm.  — Bryant# 


LAOCOON. 


97 


“AtQEvg  d?  dvijaxcov  shnsv  Ttolvann  Ovsarij, 
avrocQ  6 avts  Qviax  * Aya\i£[ivovi  Xunz  qjOQtjvai, 
noXirpsiv  vr\G0i<5i  v.cd  "Aqyu  navxl  dvdaasiv. 

And  so  at  last  I know  this  sceptre  better  than  if 
a painter  should  put  it  before  my  eyes,  or  a second 
Vulcan  give  it  into  my  hands. 

It  would  not  surprise  me  to  find  that  some  one  of 
Homer’s  old  commentators  had  admired  this  pas- 
sage as  a perfect  allegory  of  the  origin,  progress, 
establishment,  and  final  inheritance  of  monarchical 
power  among  men.  I should  smile  indeed  were  I to 
read  that  the  maker  of  the  sceptre,  Vulcan,  as  fire,  as 
that  which  is  of  supreme  importance  to  the  main- 
tenance of  mankind,  typified  the  removal  of  the 
necessities  which  induced  the  early  races  of  men 
to  subject  themselves  to  a single  ruler ; that  the  first 
king  was  a son  of  Time  ( Zevg  Kqovicov),  revered 
and  venerable,  who  desired  to  share  his  power  with 
a wise  and  eloquent  man,  a Mercury  (/. haxtoQcp 
A^yeicpovry),  or  to  resign  it  wholly  to  him ; that 
the  wise  speaker,  at  the  time  when  the  young  state 
was  threatened  by  foreign  enemies,  delivered  his 
supreme  authority  to  the  bravest  warrior  (JliXom 
Tthfeinnop) ; that  the  brave  warrior,  after  having  sub- 
dued the  enemies  and  secured  the  safety  of  the 
realm,  let  this  power  play  into  the  hands  of  his  son, 
who,  as  a peace-loving  ruler,  a beneficent  shepherd 
of  his  people  (rtoijiijv  Xamv),  introduced  comfort  and 
luxury ; that  thus  the  way  was  opened,  after  his 
death,  for  the  richest  of  his  relations  ( aoXvayr 

7 


9S 


LAOCOON. 


OvtGzrf)  to  obtain  by  gifts  and  bribery,  and  finally 
to  secure  to  his  family  for  ever,  as  a piece  of  prop- 
erty obtained  by  purchase,  that  authority  which  had 
originally  been  conferred  as  a mark  of  confidence, 
and  had  been  regarded  by  merit  rather  as  a burden 
than  an  honor.  I should  smile  at  all  this,  but  it 
would  increase  my  respect  for  a poet  to  whom  so 
much  could  be  attributed. 

But  this  is  a digression.  I am  now  considering 
the  history  of  the  sceptre  as  a device  for  making  us 
linger  over  a single  object,  without  entering  into  a 
tiresome  description  of  its  various  parts.  Again, 
when  Achilles  swears  by  his  sceptre  to  be  revenged 
on  Agamemnon  for  his  contemptuous  treatment, 
Homer  gives  us  the  history  of  this  sceptre.  We  see 
it  still  green  upon  the  mountains,  the  axe  severs  it 
from  the  parent  trunk,  strips  it  of  leaves  and  bark, 
and  makes  it  ready  to  serve  the  judges  of  the  people, 
as  the  token  of  their  godlike  office.1 


val  rods  GxynxgQv,  zb  [xsv  ovitoze  cpvllct  xcd  o£ovg 
(pVGSl,  87l8ldt]  7tg(bz(X.  ZOfltjV  SV  OgSGGt  X?loi7tEV, 
ovd * ava&7]XrjGer  Ttzgl  yag  gd  s yalxog  sXsxpsv 
cpvlXa  z s xal  qloiov  * vvv  avzs  [uv  vhg  * Ayaicov 
hv  Ttaldfiyg  cpoQs'ovGi  8ixaG7z61oi,  oizs  ftepiiGzag 
ngbg  z hog  elgvazcu. 


1 Iliad  i.  234-239. 

By  this  my  sceptre,  which  can  never  bear 
A leaf  or  twig,  since  first  it  left  its  stem 
Among  the  mountains, -—for  the  steel  has  pared 
Its  boughs  and  bark  away, — to  sprout  no  more. 
And  now  the  Achaian  judges  bear  it,  — they 
Who  guard  the  laws  received  from  Jupittr. 

Bryant, 


LAOCOON. 


99 


Homer’s  object  was  not  so  much  to  describe  two 
staves  of  different  shape  and  material,  as  to  give  us 
a graphic  picture  of  the  different  degrees  of  power 
which  these  staves  represented.  One  the  work  of 
Vulcan,  the  other  cut  upon  the  hills  by  an  unknown 
hand ; one  the  old  possession  of  a noble  house,  the 
other  destined  to  be  grasped  by  the  first  comer  ; one 
extended  by  a monarch  over  many  islands  and  over 
all  Argos,  the  other  borne  by  one  from  among  the 
Greeks,  who,  in  connection  with  others,  had  been 
intrusted  with  the  duty  of  upholding  the  laws.  This 
was  in  fact  the  difference  between  Agamemnon  and 
Achilles ; and  Achilles,  even  in  the  blindness  of  his 
passion,  could  not  but  admit  it. 

Not  only  when  Homer’s  descriptions  have  these 
higher  aims  in  view,  but  even  when  his  sole  object 
is  the  picture,  he  will  yet  break  this  up  into  a sort  of 
history  of  the  object  in  order  that  the  various  parts, 
which  we  see  side  by  side  in  nature,  may  just  as 
naturally  follow  each  other  in  his  picture,  and,  as  it 
were,  keep  pace  with  the  flow  of  the  narrative. 

He  wants,  for  instance,  to  paint  us  the  bow  of 
Pandarus.  It  is  of  horn,  of  a certain  length,  well 
polished,  and  tipped  at  both  ends  with  gold.  What 
does  he  do?  Does  he  enumerate  these  details  thus 
drily  one  after  another  ? By  no  means.  Tint  would 
be  telling  off  such  a bow,  setting  it  as  a copy,  but 
not  painting  it.  He  begins  with  the  hunting  of  the 
wild  goat  from  whose  horns  the  bow  was  made. 
Pandarus  had  lain  in  wait  for  him  among  the  rocks 
and  slain  him.  Owing  to  the  extraordinary  size  of 


100 


LA0C00N. 


the  horns,  he  decided  to  use  them  for  a bow.  They 
come  under  the  workman’s  hands,  who  joins  them 
together,  polishes,  and  tips  them.  And  thus,  as  I 
have  said,  the  poet  shows  us  in  the  process  of  crea- 
tion, what  the  painter  can  only  show  us  as  already 
existing.1 

x o£ov  £v%oov  i^akov  aiyog 
djQiov , ov  (>d  Ttox  avxbg  oxsqvoio  xvyrjaag 
mtQTjg  txficnvovxa,  dedsyfjisvog  lv  TtQoboxriaiVy 
fieplrjxzi  TtQog  gxij &og'  6 d ’ vxtxiog  fyrteos  7ttXQy. 
t ov  xsqcc  lx  xecpakijg  IxxaidexadcoQa  Tzeyvxei' 
xod  xa  [isv  aaxTjGag  xtQaolgoog  rjQaQe  xsxxco j>, 
tiulv  d ’ sv  Xeijjmg,  yjnxsiryv  eitsd'ijxs  xoqojvtjv. 

I should  never  have  done,  were  I to  try  to  write  out 
all  the  examples  of  this  kind.  They  will  occur  in 
numbers  to  every  one  familiar  with  Homer. 

1 Iliad  iv.  105-m. 

He  uncovered  straight 
His  polished  bow  made  of  the  elastic  horns 
Of  a wild  goat,  which,  from  his  lurking-place, 

As  once  it  left  its  cavern  lair,  he  smote, 

And  pierced  its  breast,  and  stretched  it  on  the  rock. 

Full  sixteen  palms  in  length  the  horns  had  grown 
From  the  goat’s  forehead.  These  an  artisan 
Had  smoothed,  and,  aptly  fitting  each  to  each, 

Polished  the  whole  and  tipped  the  work  with  gold. 

Bryant. 


LAOCOON. 


IOI 


XVII. 

But,  it  may  be  urged,  the  signs  employed  in  poetry 
not  only  follow  each  other,  but  are  also  arbitrary  • 
and,  as  arbitrary  signs,  they  are  certainly  capable  of 
expressing  things  as  they  exist  in  space.  Homer 
himself  furnishes  examples  of  this.  We  have  but  to 
call  to  mind  his  shield  of  Achilles  to  have  an  in- 
stance of  how  circumstantially  and  yet  poetically  a 
single  object  can  be  described  according  to  its  co- 
existent parts. 

I will  proceed  to  answer  this  double  objection.  I 
call  it  double,  because  a just  conclusion  must  hold, 
though  unsupported  by  examples,  and  on  the  other 
hand  the  example  of  Homer  has  great  weight  with 
me,  even  when  I am  unable  to  justify  it  by  rules. 

It  is  true  that  since  the  signs  of  speech  are  arbi- 
trary, the  parts  of  a body  can  by  their  means  be  made 
to  follow  each  other  as  readily  as  in  nature  they 
exist  side  by  side.  But  this  is  a property  of  the 
signs  of  language  in  general,  not  of  those  peculiar 
to  poetry.  The  prose  writer  is  satisfied  with  being 
intelligible,  and  making  his  representations  plain 
and  clear.  But  this  is  not  enough  for  the  poet.  He 
desires  to  present  us  with  images  so  vivid,  that  we 
fancy  we  have  the  things  themselves  before  us,  and 


102 


LA0C00N. 


cease  for  the  moment  to  be  conscious  of  his  words, 
the  instruments  with  which  he  effects  his  purpose. 
That  was  the  point  made  in  the  definition  given 
above  of  a poetical  picture.  But  the  poet  must 
always  paint ; and  now  let  us  see  in  how  far  bodies, 
considered  in  relation  to  their  parts  lying  together 
in  space,  are  fit  subjects  for  this  painting. 

How  do  we  obtain  a clear  idea  of  a thing  in  space  ? 
First  we  observe  its  separate  parts,  then  the  union 
of  these  parts,  and  finally  the  whole.  Our  senses 
perform  these  various  operations  with  such  amazing 
rapidity  as  to  make  them  seem  but  one.  This  rapid- 
ity is  absolutely  essential  to  our  obtaining  an  idea  of 
the  whole,  which  is  nothing  more  than  the  result  of 
the  conception  of  the  parts  and  of  their  connection 
with  each  other.  Suppose  now  that  the  poet  should 
lead  us  in  proper  order  from  one  part  of  the  object 
to  the  other  ; suppose  he  should  succeed  in  making 
the  connection  of  these  parts  perfectly  clear  to  us ; 
how  much  time  will  he  have  consumed  ? 

The  details,  which  the  eye  takes  in  at  a glance,  he 
enumerates  slowly  one  by  one,  and  it  often  happens 
that,  by  the  time  he  has  brought  us  to  the  last,  we 
have  forgotten  the  first.  Yet  from  these  details  we 
are  to  form  a picture.  When  we  look  at  an  object 
the  various  parts  are  always  present  to  the  eye.  It 
can  run  over  them  again  and  again.  The  ear,  how- 
ever, loses  the  details  it  has  heard,  unless  memory 
retain  them.  And  if  they  be  so  retained,  what  pains 
and  effort  it  costs  to  recall  their  impressions  in  the 
proper  order  and  with  even  the  moderate  degree  of 


LAOCOON.  103 

rapidity  necessary  to  the  obtaining  of  a tolerable  idea 
of  the  whole. 

Let  us  take  an  example  which  may  be  called  a 
masterpiece  of  its  kind. 

Dort  ragt  das  hohe  Haupt  vom  edeln  Enziane 
Weit  iibern  niedern  Chor  der  Pobelkrauter  hin, 

Ein  ganzes  Blumenvolk  dient  unter  seiner  Fahne, 

Sein  blauer  Bruder  selbst  biickt  sich  und  ehret  ihn. 

Der  Blumen  helles  Gold,  in  Strahlen  umgebogen, 

Thiirmt  sich  am  Stengel  auf,  und  kront  sein  grau  Gewand, 
Der  Blatter  glattes  Weiss  mit  tiefem  Grim  durchzogen, 
Strahlt  von  dem  bunten  Blitz  von  feuchtem  Diamant. 
Gerechtestes  Gesetz  ! dass  Kraft  sich  Zier  vermahle, 

In  einem  schonen  Leib  wohnt  eine  schon’re  Seele. 

Hier  kriecht  ein  niedrig  Kraut,  gleich  einem  grauen  Nebei 
Dem  die  Natur  sein  Blatt  im  Kreuze  hingelegt, 

Die  holde  Blume  zeigt  die  zwei  vergoldten  Schnabel, 

Die  ein  von  Amethyst  gebildter  Vogel  tragt. 

Dort  wirft  ein  glanzend  Blatt,  in  Finger  ausgekerbet, 

Auf  einen  hellen  Bach  den  griinen  Wiederschein  ; 

Der  Blumen  zarten  Schnee,  den  matter  Purpur  farbet, 
Schliesst  ein  gestreifter  Stern  in  weisse  Strahlen  ein. 
Smaragd  und  Rosen  bliihn  auch  auf  zertretner  Heide, 

Und  Felsen  decken  sich  mit  einem  Purpurkleide.1 

* Von  Haller’s  Alps. 

The  lofty  gentian’s  head  in  stately  grandeur  towers 
Far  o’er  the  common  herd  of  vulgar  weeds  and  low ; 
Beneath  his  banners  serve  communities  of  flowers  ; 

His  azure  brethren,  too,  in  rev’rence  to  him  bow. 

The  blossom’s  purest  gold  in  curving  radiations 
Erect  upon  the  stalk,  above  its  gray  robe  gleams ; 

The  leaflets’  pearly  white  with  deep  green  variegations 
With  flashes  many-hued  of  the  moist  diamond  beams. 


104 


LA0C00N. 


The  learned  poet  is  here  painting  plants  and 
flowers  with  great  art  and  in  strict  accordance  with 
nature,  but  there  is  no  illusion  in  his  picture.  I do 
not  mean  that  a person  who  had  never  seen  these 
plants  and  flowers  could  form  little  or  no  idea  of 
them  from  his  description.  Perhaps  all  poetical 
pictures  require  a previous  knowledge  of  their  sub- 
ject. Neither  would  I deny  that  a person  pos- 
sessing such  knowledge  might  derive  from  the  poet 
a more  vivid  idea  of  certain  details.  I only  ask 
how  it  is  with  a conception  of  the  whole.  If  that  is 
to  become  more  vivid,  none  of  the  separate  details 
must  stand  in  undue  prominence,  but  the  new  illumi- 
nation must  be  equally  shared  by  all.  Our  imag- 
ination must  be  able  to  embrace  them  all  with  equal 
rapidity  in  order  to  form  from  them  in  an  instant 
that  one  harmonious  whole  which  the  eye  takes  in 
at  a glance.  Is  that  the  case  here?  If  not,  how 
can  it  be  said,  “ that  the  most  exact  copy  produced 
by  a painter  is  dull  and  faint  compared  with  this 

O Law  beneficent ! which  strength  to  beauty  plighteth, 

And  to  a shape  so  fair  a fairer  soul  uniteth. 

Here  on  the  ground  a plant  like  a gray  mist  is  twining, 

In  fashion  of  a cross  its  leaves  by  Nature  laid ; 

Part  of  the  beauteous  flower,  the  gilded  beak  is  shining, 

Of  a fair  bird  whose  shape  of  amethyst  seems  made. 

Theie  into  fingers  cleft  a polished  leaf  reposes, 

And  o’er  a limpid  brook  its  green  reflection  throws ; 

With  rays  of  white  a striped  star  encloses 
The  floweret’s  disk,  where  pink  flushes  its  tender  snows. 
Thus  on  the  trodden  heath  are  rose  and  emerald  glowing, 
And  e’en  the  rugged  rocks  are  purple  banners  showing. 


LAOLOON. 


105 


poetical  description”?1  It  is  far  inferior  to  what 
lines  and  colors  can  produce  on  canvas.  The 
critic  who  bestowed  upon  it  this  exaggerated  praise 
must  have  regarded  it  from  an  entirely  false  point 
of  view.  He  must  have  looked  at  the  foreign  graces 
which  the  poet  has  woven  into  his  description,  at  his 
idealization  of  vegetable  life,  and  his  development 
of  inward  perfections,  to  which  outward  beauty 
serves  but  as  the  shell.  These  he  was  considering, 
and  not  beauty  itself  or  the  degree  of  resemblance 
and  vividness  of  the  image,  which  painter  and  poet 
respectively  can  give  us.  Upon  this  last  point 
every  thing  depends,  and  whoever  maintains  that 
the  lines, 

Der  Blumen  helles  Gold  in  Strahlen  umgebogen, 

Thiirmt  sich  am  Stengel  auf,  und  kront  sein  grau  Gewand, 
Der  Blatter  glattes  Weiss,  mit  tiefem  Griin  durchzogen, 
Strahlt  von  dem  bunten  Blitz  von  fruchtem  Diamant, 

can  vie  in  vividness  of  impression  with  a flower- 
piece  by  a Huysum,  must  either  never  have  analyzed 
his  own  sensations,  or  must  wilfully  ignore  them. 
It  might  be  very  pleasant  to  hear  the  lines  read  if  we 
had  the  flowers  in  our  hand  ; but,  taken  by  them- 
selves, they  say  little  or  nothing.  I hear  in  every 
word  the  laborious  poet,  but  the  thing  itself  I am 
unable  to  see. 

Once  more,  then,  I do  not  deny  that  language  has 
the  power  of  describing  a corporeal  whole  according 
to  its  parts.  It  certainly  has,  because  its  signs, 
although  consecutive,  are  nevertheless  arbitrary. 
But  I deny  that  this  power  exists  in  language  as  the 

1 Breitinger’s  kritische  Dichtkunst,  vol.  ii.  p.  807. 


io  6 


LA0C00N. 


instrument  of  poetry.  For  illusion,  which  is  the 
special  aim  of  poetry,  is  not  produced  by  these 
verbal  descriptions  of  objects,  nor  can  it  ever  be  so 
produced.  The  coexistence  of  the  body  comes  into 
collision  with  the  sequence  of  the  words,  and  although 
while  the  former  is  getting  resolved  into  the  latter, 
the  dismemberment  of  the  whole  into  its  parts  is 
a help  to  us,  yet  the  reunion  of  these  parts  into  a 
whole  is  made  extremely  difficult,  and  not  infre- 
quently impossible. 

Where  the  writer  does  not  aim  at  illusion,  but  is 
simply  addressing  the  understanding  of  his  readers 
with  the  desire  of  awakening  distinct  and,  as  far  as 
possible,  complete  ideas,  then  these  descriptions  of 
corporeal  objects,  inadmissible  as  they  are  in  poetry, 
are  perfectly  appropriate.  Not  only  the  prose 
writer,  but  the  didactic  poet  (for  in  as  far  as  he 
is  didactic  he  is  no  poet)  may  use  them  with  good 
effect.  Thus  Virgil,  in  his  Georgies,  describes  a cow 
fit  for  breeding : — 

Optima  torvae 

Forma  bovis,  cui  turpe  caput,  cui  plurima  cervix, 

Et  crurum  tenus  a mento  palearia  pendent. 

Turn  longo  nullus  lateri  modus  : omnia  magna : 

Pes  etiam,  et  camuris  hirtae  sub  cornibus  aures. 

Nec  mihi  displiceat  maculis  insignis  et  albo, 

Aut  juga  detractans  interdumque  aspera  cornu, 

Et  faciem  tauro  propior  ; quaeque  ardua  tota, 

Et  gradiens  ima  verrit  vestigia  cauda.1 

1 Georg,  lib.  iii.  51  and  79. 

It  her  large  front  and  neck  vast  strength  denote  ; 

If  on  her  knee  the  pendulous  dewlap  float ; 


LAOCOON 


107 


Or  a handsome  colt : — 

Illi  ardua  cervix, 

Argutumque  caput,  brevis  alvus,  obesaque  terga, 
Luxuriatque  toris  animosum  pectus,  &C.1 

Here  the  poet  is  plainly  concerned  more  with  the 
setting  forth  of  the  separate  parts  than  with  the 
effect  of  the  whole.  His  object  is  to  tell  us  the  char- 
acteristics of  a handsome  colt  and  a good  cow,  so 
that  we  may  judge  of  their  excellence  according  to 
the  number  of  these  characteristics  which  they  pos- 
sess. Whether  or  not  all  these  can  be  united  into  a 
vivid  picture  was  a matter  of  indifference  to  him. 

Except  for  this  purpose,  elaborate  pictures  of 
bodily  objects,  unless  helped  out  by  the  above-men- 
tioned Homeric  device  of  making  an  actual  series 
out  of  their  coexistent  parts,  have  always  been  con- 
sidered by  the  best  critics  as  ineffective  trifles, 
requiring  little  or  no  genius.  “ When  a poetaster,” 


If  curling  horns  their  crescent  inward  bend, 

And  bristly  hairs  beneath  the  ear  defend ; 

If  lengthening  flanks  to  bounding  measure  spread  ; 
If  broad  her  foot  and  bold  her  bull-like  head; 

If  snowy  spots  her  mottled  body  stain, 

And  her  indignant  brow  the  yoke  disdain, 

With  tail  wide-sweeping  as  she  stalks  the  dews, 
Thus,  lofty,  large,  and  long,  the  mother  choose. 

Dryden. 


® Georg,  lib.  hi.  51  and  79. 

Light  on  his  airy  crest  his  slender  head, 

His  belly  short,  his  loins  luxuriant  spread  ; 
Muscle  on  muscle  knots  his  brawny  breast,  &c. 


Drydeh, 


io8 


L A.OCOON. 


says  Horace,  “ can  do  nothing  else,  he  falls  to 
describing  a grove,  an  altar,  a brook  winding  through 
pleasant  meadows,  a rushing  river,  or  a rainbow.” 

Lucus  et  ara  Dianas, 

Et  properantis  aquas  per  amoenos  ambitus  agros, 

Aut  flumen  Rhenum,  aut  pluvius  describitur  arcus.1 

Pope,  when  a man,  looked  back  with  contempt 
on  the  descriptive  efforts  of  his  poetic  childhood. 
He  expressly  enjoined  upon  every  one,  who  would 
not  prove  himself  unworthy  the  name  of  poet,  to 
abandon  as  early  as  possible  this  fondness  for 
description.  A merely  descriptive  poem  he  declared 
to  be  a feast  made  up  of  sauces.2  Herr  Von 
Kleist,  I know,  prided  himself  very  little  on  his 
“ Spring.”  Had  he  lived,  he  would  have  refash- 
ioned it  altogether.  He  wanted  to  introduce  into  it 
some  plan,  and  was  meditating  how  he  could  best 
make  the  crowd  of  pictures,  which  seemed  to  have 
been  drawn  at  random  from  the  whole  vast  range  of 
fresh  creation,  rise  in  some  natural,  order  and  follow 
each  other  in  fitting  sequence.  He  would,  at  the 
same  time,  have  done  what  Marmontel,  doubtless 
with  reference  to  his  Eclogues,  recommended  to 
several  German  poets.  He  would  have  converted 
a series  of  pictures  scantily  interwoven  with  mental 
emotions,  into  a series  of  emotions  sparingly  inter- 
spersed with  images.3 

1 De  Art.  Poet.  16. 

2 See  Appendix,  note  37. 

* See  Appendix,  note  38. 


L.AOCOON. 


IOQ 


XVIII. 

And  shall  Homer  nevertheless  have  fallen  into  those 
barren  descriptions  of  material  objects? 

Let  us  hope  that  only  a few  such  passages  can  be 
cited.  And  even  those  few,  I venture  to  assert,  will 
be  found  really  to  confirm  the  rule,  to  which  they 
appear  to  form  an  exception. 

The  rule  is  this,  that  succession  in  time  is  the 
province  of  the  poet,  co-existence  in  space  that  of 
the  artist. 

To  bring  together  into  one  and  the  same  picture 
two  points  of  time  necessarily  remote,  as  Mazzuoli 
does  the  rape  of  the  Sabine  women  and  the  recon- 
ciliation effected  by  them  between  their  husbands  and 
relations  ; or  as  Titian  does,  representing  in  one  piece 
the  whole  story  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  — his  dissolute 
life,  his  misery,  and  repentance,  — is  an  encroach- 
ment of  the  painter  on  the  domain  of  the  poet,  which 
good  taste  can  never  sanction. 

To  try  to  present  a complete  picture  to  the  reader 
by  enumerating  in  succession  several  parts  or  things 
which  in  nature  the  eye  necessarily  takes  in  at  a 
glance,  is  an  encroachment  of  the  poet  on  the  domain 
of  the  painter,  involving  a great  effort  of  the  imagi 
nation  to  very  little  purpose. 


no 


LAOCOON. 


Painting  and  poetry  should  be  like  two  just  and 
friendly  neighbors,  neither  of  whom  indeed  is  allowed 
to  take  unseemly  liberties  in  the  heart  of  the  other’s 
domain,  but  who  exercise  mutual  forbearance  on 
the  borders,  and  effect  a peaceful  settlement  for 
all  the  petty  encroachments  which  circumstances 
may  compel  either  to  make  in  haste  on  the  rights 
of  the  other. 

I will  not  bring  forward  in  support  of  this  the  fact 
that,  in  large  historical  pictures  the  single  moment 
of  time  is  always  somewhat  extended,  and  that  per- 
haps no  piece,  very  rich  in  figures,  can  be  found,  in 
which  every  character  has  exactly  the  motion  and 
attitude  proper  to  him  at  that  particular  moment. 
The  position  of  some  belongs  to  a preceding  point 
of  time,  that  of  others  to  a later.  This  is  a liberty 
which  the  painter  must  justify  by  certain  subtleties 
of  arrangement,  such  as  placing  his  figures  more  in 
the  foreground  or  background,  and  thus  making 
them  take  a more  or  less  immediate  interest  in  what 
is  going  on.  I will  merely  quote,  in  favor  of  my 
view,  a criticism  of  Mengs  on  Raphael’s  drapery.1 
“ There  is  a reason  for  all  his  folds,  either  in  the 
weight  of  the  material  or  the  tension  of  the  limbs. 
We  can  often  infer  from  their  present  condition  what 
they  had  been  previously.  Raphael  indeed  aimed  at 
giving  them  significance  in  this  way.  We  can  judge 
from  the  folds  whether,  previously  to  the  present 
posture,  a leg  or  an  arm  had  been  more  in  front  or 

1 Gedanken  iiber  die  Schonheit  und  iiber  den  Geschmack 
in  der  Malerei,  p.  69. 


LAOCOON. 


Ill 


more  behind,  whether  a limb  had  been  bent  and  is 
now  straightening  itself,  or  whether  it  had  been  out- 
stretched and  is  now  bending.”  Here  unquestion- 
ably the  artist  unites  into  one  two  distinct  points  of 
time.  For,  since  the  foot  in  its  motion  forward  is 
immediately  followed  by  that  portion  of  the  garment 
which  rests  upon  it,  — unless  indeed  the  garment  be 
of  exceedingly  stiff  material,  in  which  case  it  is  ill 
adapted  to  painting,  — there  can  be  no  moment  at 
which  the  drapery  assumes  in  the  least  degree  any 
other  fold  than  the  present  posture  of  the  limb  de- 
mands. If  any  other  be  represented,  then  the  fold 
is  that  of  the  preceding  moment  while  the  position 
of  the  foot  is  that  of  the  present.  Few,  however, 
will  be  inclined  to  deal  thus  strictly  with  the  artist  who 
finds  it  for  his  interest  to  bring  these  two  moments 
of  time  before  us  at  once.  Who  will  not  rather 
praise  him  for  having  had  the  wisdom  and  the  cour- 
age to  commit  a slight  fault  for  the  sake  of  greater 
fulness  of  expression  ? 

A similar  indulgence  is  due  to  the  poet.  The  con- 
tinuity of  his  imitation  permits  him,  strictly  speak- 
ing, to  touch  at  one  moment  on  only  a single  side, 
a single  property  of  his  corporeal  objects.  But  if 
the  happy  construction  of  his  language  enables  him 
to  do  this  with  a single  word,  why  should  he  not 
sometimes  be  allowed  to  add  a second  such  word? 
why  not  a third,  if  it  be  worth  his  while,  or  even  a 
fourth  ? As  I have  said,  a ship  in  Homer  is  either 
simply  the  black  ship,  or  the  hollow  ship,  or  the 
swift  ship ; at  most  the  well-manned  black  ship 


1 12 


LAOCOON. 


That  is  true  of  his  style  in  general.  Occasionally 
a passage  occurs  where  he  adds  a third  descriptive 
epithet : 1 Katntvlci  xvxXa,  %dXxea,  oxxdxvijfta,  “ round, 
brazen,  eight-spoked  wheels.”  Even  a fourth : damSu. 
Tidrzoos  Eicrjv , xaXtjV,  xaX'AEirjv,  s^rjXaxoVj2  “ a uniformly 
smooth,  beautiful,  brazen,  wrought  shield.”  Who 
will  not  rather  thank  than  blame  him  for  this  little 
luxuriance,  when  we  perceive  its  good  effect  in  a few 
suitable  passages  ? 

The  true  justification  of  both  poet  and  painter 
shall  not,  however,  be  left  to  rest  upon  this  analogy 
of  two  friendly  neighbors.  A mere  analogy  fur- 
nishes neither  proof  nor  justification.  I justify  them 
in  this  way.  As  in  the  picture  the  two  moments  of 
time  follow  each  other  so  immediately  that  we  can 
without  effort  consider  them  as  one,  so  in  the  poem 
the  several  touches  answering  to  the  different  parts 
and  properties  in  space  are  so  condensed,  and  suc- 
ceed each  other  so  rapidly,  that  we  seem  to  catch 
them  all  at  once. 

Here,  as  I have  said,  Homer  is  greatly  aided  by 
his  admirable  language.  It  not  only  allows  him  all 
possible  freedom  in  multiplying  and  combining  his 
epithets,  but  enables  him  to  arrange  them  so  happily 
that  we  are  relieved  of  all  awkward  suspense  with 
regard  to  the  subject.  Some  of  the  modern  lan- 
guages are  destitute  of  one  or  more  of  those  advan- 
tages. Those  which,  like  the  French,  must  have 
recourse  to  paraphrase,  and  convert  the  xa\mvXa 
xvxXu,  ^dXxEo c,  6xzdxvr\\ia  of  Homer  into  “ the  round 

1 Iliad  v.  722.  2 Iliad  xii.  296. 


LAOCOON. 


113 

wheels  which  were  of  brass  and  had  eight  spokes,” 
give  the  meaning,  but  destroy  the  picture.  The 
sense  is  here,  however,  nothing ; the  picture  every 
thing.  The  one  without  the  other  turns  the  most 
graphic  of  poets  into  a tiresome  tattler.  This  fate  has 
often  befallen  Homer  under  the  pen  of  the  consci- 
entious Madame  Dacier.  The  German  language  can 
generally  render  the  Homeric  adjectives  by  equally 
short  equivalents,  but  it  cannot  follow  the  happy 
arrangement  of  the  Greek.  It  can  say,  indeed,  “ the 
round,  brazen,  eight-spoked  ; ” but  “ wheels  ” comes 
dragging  after.  Three  distinct  predicates  before 
any  subject  make  but  a confused,  uncertain  picture. 
The  Greek  joins  the  subject  with  the  first  predicate 
and  lets  the  others  follow.  He  says,  “ round  wheels, 
brazen,  eight-spoked.”  Thus  we  know  at  once  of 
what  he  is  speaking,  and  learn  first  the  thing  and 
then  its  accidents,  which  is  the  natural  order  of  our 
thoughts.  The  German  language  does  not  possess 
this  advantage.  Or  shall  I say,  what  really  amounts 
to  the  same  thing,  that,  although  possessing  it,  the 
language  can  seldom  use  it  without  ambiguity?  For 
if  adjectives  be  placed  after  the  subject  (runde  Rader, 
ehern  und  achtspeichigt)  they  are  indeclinable,  dif- 
fering in  nothing  from  adverbs,  and  if  referred,  as 
adverbs,  to  the  first  verb  that  is  predicated  of  the 
subject,  the  meaning  of  the  whole  sentence  becomes 
always  distorted,  and  sometimes  entirely  falsified. 

But  I am  lingering  over  trifles  and  seem  to  have 
forgotten  the  shield  of  Achilles,  that  famous  picture, 
which  more  than  all  else,  caused  Homer  to  be 

8 


LAOCOON. 


1 14 

regarded  among  the  ancients  as  a master  of  painting.1 
But  surely  a shield,  it  may  be  said,  is  a single  corpo^ 
real  object,  the  description  of  which  according  to  its 
coexistent  parts  cannot  come  within  the  province  of 
poetry.  Yet  this  shield,  its  material,  its  form,  and 
all  the  figures  which  occupied  its  enormous  surface, 
Homer  has  described,  in  more  than  a hundred  mag- 
nificent lines,  so  circumstantially  and  precisely  that 
modern  artists  have  found  no  difficulty  in  making  a 
drawing  of  it  exact  in  every  detail. 

My  answer  to  this  particular  objection  is,  that  I 
have  already  answered  it.  Homer  does  not  paint 
the  shield  finished,  but  in  the  process  of  creation. 
Here  again  he  has  made  use  of  the  happy  device  of 
substituting  progression  for  coexistence,  and  thus  con- 
verted the  tiresome  description  of  an  object  into  a 
graphic  picture  of  an  action.  We  see  not  the  shield, 
but  the  divine  master-workman  employed  upon  it. 
Hammer  and  tongs  in  hand  he  approaches  the  anvil ; 
and,  after  having  forged  the  plates  from  the  rough 
metal,  he  makes  the  pictures  designed  for  its  decora- 
tion rise  from  the  brass,  one  by  one,  under  his  finer 
blows.  Not  till  the  whole  is  finished  do  we  lose 
sight  of  him.  At  last  it  is  done  ; and  we  wonder  at 
the  work,  but  with  the  believing  wonder  of  an  eye- 
witness who  has  seen  it  a-making. 

The  same  cannot  be  said  of  the  shield  of  Hmeas 
in  Virgil.  The  Roman  poet  either  failed  to  see  the 
fineness  of  his  model,  or  the  things  which  he  wished 

1 Dionysius  Halicarnass.  in  Vita  Homeri  apud  Th.  Gale  in 
OpTisc.  Mythol.  p.  401. 


LAOCOON. 


1*5 

to  represent  upon  his  shield  seemed  to  him  not  of 
such  a kind  as  to  allow  of  their  being  executed  before 
our  eyes.  They  were  prophecies,  which  the  god 
certainly  could  not  with  propriety  have  uttered  in 
our  presence  as  distinctly  as  the  poet  explains  them 
in  his  work.  Prophecies,  as  such,  require  a darker 
speech,  in  which  the  names  of  those  persons  to  come, 
whose  fortunes  are  predicted,  cannot  well  be  spoken. 
In  these  actual  names,  however,  lay,  it  would  seem, 
the  chief  point  of  interest  to  the  poet  and  courtier.1 
But  this,  though  it  excuse  him,  does  not  do  away  with 
the  disagreeable  effect  of  his  departure  from  the 
Homeric  method,  as  all  readers  of  taste  will  admit. 
The  preparations  made  by  Vulcan  are  nearly  the 
same  in  Homer  as  in  Virgil.  But  while  in  Homer 
we  see,  besides  the  preparations  for  the  work,  the 
work  itself,  Virgil,  after  showing  us  the  god  at  work 
with  his  Cyclops, 

Ingentem  clypeum  informant  . . . 

. . . Alii  ventosis  follibus  auras 
Accipiunt,  redduntque  ; alii  stridentia  tingunt 
Mxa.  lacu.  Gemit  impositis  incudibus  antrum. 

Illi  inter  sese  multa  vi  brachia  tollunt 
In  ntmierum,  versantque  tenaci  forcipe  massam, 2 

1 See  Appendix,  note  39. 

2 iEneid  lib.  viii.  447. 

Their  artful  hands  a shield  prepare. 

One  stirs  the  fire,  and  one  the  bellows  blows ; 

The  hissing  steel  is  in  the  smithy  drowned ; 

The  grot  with  beaten  anvils  groans  around. 

By  turns  their  arms  advance  in  equal  time, 

By  turns  their  hands  descend  and  hammers  chime ; 
They  turn  the  glowing  mass  with  crooked  tongs. 

Dryden. 


ii  6 


LAOCOON. 


suddenly  drops  the  curtain  and  transports  us  to  a 
wholly  different  scene.  We  are  gradually  led  into 
the  valley  where  Venus  appears,  bringing  ^Eneas 
the  arms  that  in  the  mean  while  have  been  finished. 
She  places  them  against  the  trunk  of  an  oak  ; and, 
after  the  hero  has  sufficiently  stared  at  them,  and 
wondered  over  them,  and  handled  them,  and  tried 
them,  the  description  or  picture  of  the  shield  begins, 
which  grows  so  cold  and  tedious  from  the  constantly 
recurring  “ here  is,”  and  “ there  is,”  and  “ near  by 
stands,”  and  “ not  far  from  there  is  seen,”  that  all 
Virgil’s  poetic  grace  is  needed  to  prevent  it  from 
becoming  intolerable.  Since,  moreover,  this  descrip- 
tion is  not  given  by  ^Sneas,  who  delights  in  the  mere 
figures  without  any  knowledge  of  their  import, 

. . . rerumque  ignarus  imagine  gaudet, 

nor  by  Venus,  although  she  might  be  supposed  to 
know  as  much  about  the  fortunes  of  her  dear  grand- 
son as  her  good-natured  husband,  but  by  the  poet 
himself,  the  action  meanwhile  necessarily  remains  at 
a stand-still.  Not  a single  one  of  the  characters  takes 
part ; nor  is  what  follows  in  the  least  affected  by  the 
representations  on  the  shield.  The  subtle  courtier, 
helping  out  his  material  with  every  manner  of  flatter- 
ing allusion,  is  apparent  throughout ; but  no  trace  do 
we  see  of  the  great  genius,  who  trusts  to  the  intrinsic 
merit  of  his  work,  and  despises  all  extraneous  means 
of  awakening  interest.  The  shield  of  .TCneas  is 
therefore,  in  fact,  an  interpolation,  intended  solely  to 
flatter  the  pride  of  the  Romans ; a foreign  brook 


LAOCOON. 


ii  7 


with  which  the  poet  seeks  to  give  fresh  movement  to 
his  stream.  The  shield  of  Achilles,  on  the  contrary, 
is  the  outgrowth  of  its  own  fruitful  soil.  For  a shield 
was  needed ; and,  since  even  what  is  necessary  never 
comes  from  the  hands  of  deity  devoid  of  beauty,  the 
shield  had  to  be  ornamented.  The  art  was  in  treating 
these  ornamentations  as  such,  and  nothing  more ; 
in  so  weaving  them  into  the  material  that  when  we 
look  at  that  we  cannot  but  see  them.  This  could 
be  accomplished  only  by  the  method  which  Homer 
adopted.  Homer  makes  Vulcan  devise  decorations, 
because  he  is  to  make  a shield  worthy  of  a divine 
workman.  Virgil  seems  to  make  him  fashion  the 
shield  for  the  sake  of  the  decorations,  since  he  deems 
these  of  sufficient  importance  to  deserve  a special 
description  long  after  the  shield  is  finished. 


ii8 


LAOCOON. 


XIX. 

The  objections  brought  against  Homer’s  shield  by 
the  elder  Scaliger,  Perrault,  Terrasson,  and  others, 
are  well  known,  as  are  also  the  answers  of  Madame 
Dacier,  Boivin,  and  Pope.  But  these  latter,  it  seems 
to  me,  have  gone  somewhat  too  far,  and  confiding  in 
the  justness  of  their  cause  have  asserted  things  incor- 
rect in  themselves  and  contributing  little  to  the  poet’s 
justification. 

In  answer  to  the  chief  objection,  that  Homer  had 
burdened  his  shield  with  more  figures  than  there 
could  possibly  have  been  room  for,  Boivin  under- 
took to  show  in  a drawing  how  the  necessary  space 
might  be  obtained.  His  idea  of  the  various  concen- 
tric circles  was  very  ingenious,  although  there  is  no 
foundation  for  it  in  the  poet’s  words  and  nothing  any- 
where to  indicate  that  shields  divided  in  this  way 
were  known  to  the  ancients.  Since  Homer  calls 
it  (adxog  Ttavtoas  dsdculcofievov)  a shield,  artistically 
wrought  on  all  sides,  I should  prefer  to  gain  the 
required  space  by  turning  to  account  the  concave 
surface.  A proof  that  the  old  artists  did  not  leave 
this  empty  is  furnished  in  the  shield  of  Minerva 
by  Phidias.1  But  not  only  does  Boivin  fail  to  seize 

1 See  Appendix,  note  40. 


LAOCOON. 


1 19 

this  advantage,  but,  by  separating  into  two  or  three 
pictures  what  the  poet  evidently  meant  for  one, 
he  unnecessarily  multiplies  the  representations  while 
diminishing  the  space  by  one-half.  I know  the 
motive  which  led  him  to  this,  but  it  was  one  by  which 
he  should  not  have  allowed  himself  to  be  influenced. 
He  should  have  shown  his  opponents  the  unreason- 
ableness of  their  demands,  instead  of  trying  to  satisfy 
them. 

An  example  will  make  my  meaning  clear.  When 
Homer  says  of  one  of  the  two  cities  : 1 

laol  8'  dv  ayoQri  eaav  a&QOOf  ev&a  8s  veTxog 
ooqcoqsi  8vo  5’  avdQEg  evsixsov  eivexa  7toivrjg 
dvdQog  u7tocp&[[i8vov  6 [xsv  evyero  ndvz  artodovvcu, 
dtjfjicp  rticpavouov,  6 8’  avawero  [jirjdev  iXiad'ai’ 
apcpco  Ua&rjv  ml  igzoqi  miQUQ  ileo&cu. 

* Iliad  xviii.  497-508. 

Meanwhile  a multitude 
Was  in  the  forum  where  a strife  went  on,— 

Two  men  contending  for  a fine,  the  price 
Of  one  who  had  been  slain.  Before  the  crowd 
One  claimed  that  he  had  paid  the  fine,  and  one 
Denied  that  aught  had  been  received,  and  both 
Called  for  the  sentence  which  should  end  the  strife. 

The  people  clamored  for  both  sides,  for  both 
Had  eager  friends  ; the  herald  held  the  crowd 
In  check  ; the  elders,  upon  polished  stones, 

Sat  in  a sacred  circle.  Each  one  took 
In  turn  a herald’s  sceptre  in  his  hand, 

And  rising  gave  his  sentence.  In  the  midst 
Two  talents  lay  in  gold,  to  be  the  meed 
Of  him  whose  juster  judgment  should  prevail. 

Bryant. 


120 


LA0C00N. 


laol  8'  d[icpoz8QOtmv  Im'jTivov,  dpcpig  aQooyoi 
xrjQVxeg  agct  laov  sgrjzvov  oi  8s  ytQOVtsg 
Eia x km  <;e6zoi6i  It&oig  isfjcp  kvl  uvula), 
ourjrtZQot  8e  mjqvkoov  kv  %£q(5  syov  rjsnoqjojvwv' 
zoigiv  sTteiz  ilia  gov,  dpoiftqdlg  8s  d£xa£ov. 

XELZO  8 ’ d(j  kv  (A.S66016L  8l)0J  %QV60lG  xdloLVXOL, 

he  refers,  as  I understand  him,  to  but  a single  picture, 
that  of  a public  lawsuit  about  the  contested  payment 
of  a considerable  fine  for  the  committal  of  a murder. 
The  artist,  who  is  to  execute  this  design,  can  use  but 
a single  moment  of  the  action,  — that  of  the  accusa- 
tion, of  the  examination  of  witnesses,  of  the  pro- 
nouncing of  the  sentence,  or  any  other  preceding  or 
following  or  intervening  moment  which  may  seem  to 
him  most  fitting.  This  single  moment  he  makes  as 
pregnant  as  possible,  and  reproduces  it  with  all  that 
power  of  illusion  which  in  the  presentation  of  visible 
objects  art  possesses  above  poetry.  Left  far  behind 
in  this  respect,  what  remains  to  the  poet,  if  his  words 
are  to  paint  the  same  design  with  any  degree  of  suc- 
cess, but  to  avail  himself  of  feis  peculiar  advantages  ? 
These  are  the  liberty  of  extending  his  representation 
over  what  preceded,  as  well  as  what  was  to  follow, 
the  artist’s  single  point  of  time,  and  the  power  of 
showing  not  only  what  the  artist  shows,  but  what  he 
has  to  leave  to  our  imagination.  Only  by  using  these 
advantages  can  the  poet  raise  himself  to  a level  with 
the  artist.  Their  works  most  resemble  each  other 
when  their  effect  is  equally  vivid  ; not  when  one  brings 
before  the  imagination  through  the  ear  neither  more 


LAOCOON. 


1 2 I 


nor  less  than  the  other  presents  to  the  eye.  Had 
Boivin  defended  the  passage  in  Homer  according  to 
this  principle,  he  would  not  have  divided  it  into  as 
many  separate  pictures  as  he  thought  he  detected 
distinct  points  of  time.  All  that  Homer  relates 
could  not,  indeed,  be  united  in  a single  picture.  The 
accusation  and  the  denial,  the  summoning  of  the 
witnesses  and  the  shouts  of  the  divided  populace, 
the  efforts  of  the  heralds  to  quiet  the  tumult  and  the 
sentence  of  the  judges,  are  things  successive  in  time, 
not  coexistent  in  space.  But  what  is  not  actually  in 
the  picture  is  there  virtually,  and  the  only  true  way  of 
representing  an  actual  picture  in  words  is  to  combine 
what  virtually  exists  in  it  with  what  is  absolutely 
visible.  The  poet  who  allows  himself  to  be  bound 
by  the  limits  of  art  may  furnish  data  for  a picture, 
out  can  never  create  one  of  his  own. 

The  picture  of  the  beleaguered  city 1 Boivin  divides 
likewise  into  three.  He  might  as  well  have  made 
twelve  out  of  it  as  three.  For  since  he  has  once  for 
all  failed  to  grasp  the  spirit  of  the  poet,  and  requires 
him  to  be  bound  by  the  unities  of  a material  picture, 
he  might  have  discovered  many  more  violations 
of  these  unities.  In  fact  he  ought  almost  to  have 
devoted  a separate  space  on  the  shield  to  every 
separate  touch  of  the  poet.  In  my  opinion  Homer 
has  but  ten  different  pictures  on  the  whole  shield, 
every  one  of  which  he  introduces  with  iv  ph  hsv^s, 
or  iv  ds  rtoiTjGz,  or  iv  6 * ixi&ei,  or  iv  di  TtoixiV.s 
^liyiyvrisis,  “on  it  he  wrought,”  “on  it  he  placed/’ 

1 Iliad  xviii.  509-540. 


122 


LAOCOON. 


ron  it  he  formed,”  “on  it  Vulcan  skilfully  fash- 
ioned.” 1 In  the  absence  of  these  introductory  words 
we  have  no  right  to  suppose  a distinct  picture.  On 
the  contrary  every  thing  which  they  cover  must  be 
regarded  as  a single  whole,  wanting  in  nothing  but 
the  arbitrary  concentration  into  one  moment  of  time, 
which  the  poet  was  in  no  way  bound  to  observe. 
Had  he  observed  this,  and,  by  strictly  limiting  him- 
self to  it,  excluded  every  little  feature  which  in  the 
material  representation  would  have  been  inconsistent 
with  this  unity  of  time ; had  he  in  fact  done  what  his 
cavillers  require,  — these  gentlemen  would  indeed 
have  had  no  fault  to  find  with  him,  but  neither  would 
any  person  of  taste  have  found  aught  to  admire. 

Pope  not  only  accepted  Boivin’s  drawing,  but 
thought  he  was  doing  a special  service  by  showing 
that  every  one  of  these  mutilated  pieces  was  in 
accordance  with  the  strictest  rules  of  painting,  as 
laid  down  at  the  present  day.  Contrast,  perspec- 
tive, the  three  unities,  he  found,  were  all  observed  in 
the  best  possible  manner.  And  although  well  aware 
that,  according  to  the  testimony  of  good  and  trust- 
worthy witnesses,  painting  at  the  time  of  the  Trojan 
war  was  still  in  its  cradle,  he  supposes  either  that 
Homer,  instead  of  being  bound  by  the  achievements 
of  painting  at  that  time  or  in  his  own  day,  must  in 
virtue  of  his  godlike  genius  have  anticipated  all  that 
art  should  in  future  be  able  to  accomplish,  or  else 
tnat  the  witnesses  could  not  have  been  so  -entirely 
worthy  of  faith  that  the  direct  testimony  of  this 

1 See  Appendix,  note  41. 


LAOCOON. 


123 


artistic  shield  should  not  be  preferred  to  theirs. 
Whoever  will,  may  accept  the  former  supposition  : the 
latter,  surely,  no  one  will  be  persuaded  to  adopt  who 
knows  any  thing  more  of  the  history  of  art  than  the 
date  of  the  historians.  That  painting  in  the  time  of 
Homer  was  still  in  its  infancy  he  believes,  not  merely 
on  the  authority  of  Pliny,  or  some  other  writer,  but 
chiefly  because,  judging  from  the  works  of  art  men- 
tioned by  the  ancients,  he  sees  that  even  centuries 
later  no  great  progress  had  been  made.  The  pictures 
of  Polygnotus,  for  instance,  by  no  means  stand  the 
test  which  Pope  thinks  can  be  successfully  applied 
to  Homer’s  shield.  The  two  great  works  by  this 
master  at  Delphi,  of  which  Pausanias  has  left  a 
circumstantial  description,1  were  evidently  wholly 
wanting  in  perspective.  The  ancients  had  no  knowl- 
edge of  this  branch  of  art,  and  what  Pope  adduces 
as  proof  that  Homer  understood  it,  only  proves  that 
he  has  a very  imperfect  understanding  of  it  himself. 

“ That  Homer,”  he  says,  “ was  not  a stranger  to 
aerial  perspective  appears  in  his  expressly  marking 
the  distance  of  object  from  object.  He  tells  us,  for 
instance,  that  the  two  spies  lay  a little  remote  from 
the  other  figures,  and  that  the  oak  under  which  was 
spread  the  banquet  of  the  reapers  stood  apart.  What 
he  says  of  the  valley  sprinkled  all  over  with  cottages 
and  flocks  appears  to  be  a description  of  a large 
country  in  perspective.  And,  indeed,  a general  argu- 
ment for  this  may  be  drawn  from  the  number  of  fig- 
ures on  the  shield,  which  could  not  be  all  expressed 

1 Phocic.  cap.  xxv.-xxxi.  2 See  Appendix,  note  42. 


124 


LAOCOON. 


in  their  full  size ; and  this  is  therefore  a sort  of 
proof  that  the  art  of  lessening  them  according  to 
perspective  was  known  at  that  time.”  The  mere 
representing  of  an  object  at  a distance  as  smaller  than 
it  would  be  if  nearer  the  eye,  by  no  means  constitutes 
perspective  in  a picture.  Perspective  requires  a sin- 
gle point  of  view ; a definite,  natural  horizon  ; and  this 
was  wanting  in  the  old  pictures.  In  the  paintings 
of  Polygnotus  the  ground,  instead  of  being  level, 
rose  so  decidedly  at  the  back  that  the  figures  which 
were  meant  to  stand  behind  seemed  to  be  standing 
above  one  another.  If  this  was  the  usual  position 
of  the  various  figures  and  groups,  — and  that  it  was 
so  may  fairly  be  concluded  from  the  old  bas-reliefs, 
where  those  behind  always  stand  higher  than  those 
in  front,  and  look  over  their  heads,  — then  we  may 
reasonably  take  it  for  granted  in  Homer,  and  should 
not  unnecessarily  dismember  those  representations 
of  his,  which  according  to  this  treatment  might  be 
united  in  a single  picture.  The  double  scene  in  the 
peaceful  city,  through  whose  streets  a joyous  mar- 
riage train  was  moving  at  the  same  time  that  an 
important  trial  was  going  on  in  the  market-place, 
requires  thus  no  double  picture.  Homer  could  very 
well  think  of  it  as  one,  since  he  imagined  himself  to 
be  overlooking  the  city  from  such  a height  as  to 
command  at  once  a view  of  the  streets  and  the 
market. 

My  opinion  is  that  perspective  in  pictures  came 
incidentally  from  scene-painting,  which  was  already 
in  its  perfection.  But  the  applications  of  its  rules 


I.AOCOON. 


125 


to  a single  smooth  surface  was  evidently  no  easy 
matter ; for,  even  in  the  later  paintings  found  among 
the  antiquities  of  Herculaneum,  there  are  many  and 
various  offences  against  perspective,  which  would 
now  hardly  be  excusable  even  in  a beginner.1 

But  I will  spare  myself  the  labor  of  collecting  my 
desultory  observations  on  a point  whereon  I may 
hope  to  receive  complete  satisfaction  from  Winkel- 
mann’s  promised  “ History  of  Art.” 2 

1 Betrachtungen  iiber  die  Malerei,  p.  185, 

* Written  in  1763. 


126 


LAOCOON. 


XX. 

To  return,  then,  to  my  road,  if  a saunterer  can  be 
said  to  have  a road. 

What  I have  been  saying  of  bodily  objects  in 
general  applies  with  even  more  force  to  those  which 
are  beautiful. 

Physical  beauty  results  from  the  harmonious  action 
of  various  parts  which  can  be  taken  in  at  a glance. 
It  therefore  requires  that  these  parts  should  lie 
near  together ; and,  since  things  whose  parts  lie 
near  together  are  the  proper  subjects  of  painting, 
this  art  and  this  alone  can  imitate  physical  beauty. 

The  poet,  who  must  necessarily  detail  in  succes- 
sion the  elements  of  beauty,  should  therefore  desist 
entirely  from  the  description  of  physical  beauty  as 
such.  He  must  feel  that  these  elements  arranged 
in  a series  cannot  possibly  produce  the  same  effect 
as  in  juxtaposition  ; that  the  concentrating  glance 
which  we  try  to  cast  back  over  them  immediately 
after  their  enumeration,  gives  us  no  harmonious  pic- 
ture ; and  that  to  conceive  the  effect  of  certain  eyes, 
a certain  mouth  and  nose  taken  together,  unless  we 
can  recall  a similar  combination  of  such  parts  in 
nature  or  art,  surpasses  the  power  of  human  imagi- 
nation. 


LAOCOON. 


127 


Here  again  Homer  is  the  model  of  all  models. 
He  says,  Nireus  was  fair ; Achilles  was  fairer ; 
Helen  was  of  godlike  beauty.  But  he  is  nowhere 
betrayed  into  a more  detailed  description  of  these 
beauties.  Yet  the  whole  poem  is  based  upon  the 
loveliness  of  Helen.  How  a modern  poet  would 
have  revelled  in  descriptions  of  it ! 

Even  Constantinus  Manasses  sought  to  adorn  his 
bald  chronicle  with  a picture  of  Helen.  I must 
thank  him  for  the  attempt,  for  I really  should  not 
know  where  else  to  turn  for  so  striking  an  example 
of  the  folly  of  venturing  on  what  Homer’s  wisdom 
forbore  to  undertake.  When  I read  in  him : 1 

?jv  ?)  yvvtj  TZeQwallijg,  suoqigvg,  ev/govcrtazt/, 
eurtccgstog,  £v77()6(Jco7iog,  fiocomg,  yiovoygovg , 
tXixofiXstyugog,  dpgd,  yagizcov  ytyiov  dXcog, 

1sVXoB(JU%L COV,  TQVQpSQCC,  X&XXog  UVZlXQVg  SflTtVOVV , 
to  TlQOGttTtOV  XUZcdEVxbv,  Tj  TtUQUtt  QOdo/gOVg, 
zb  TtgoawTtov  emyagi,  zb  fiXscpagov  cogaiov, 
xaXXog  dvemzgdiivzov,  dfiaTtziazov,  avzoygovv, 
efiu7tze  zrjv  Xevxozr^za  godoygia  Ttvgmj. 

1 “ She  was  a woman  right  beautiful,  with  fine  eyebrows,  of 
dearest  complexion,  beautiful  cheeks ; comely,  with  large,  full 
eyes,  with  snow-white  skin,  quick-glancing,  graceful ; a grove 
filled  with  graces,  fair-armed,  voluptuous,  breathing  beauty 
undisguised.  The  complexion  fair,  the  cheek  rosy,  the  counte- 
nance pleasing,  the  eye  blooming ; a beauty  unartificial,  un- 
tinted, of  its  natural  color,  adding  brightness  to  the  brightest 
cherry,  as  if  one  should  dye  ivory  with  resplendent  purple. 
Her  neck  long,  of  dazzling  whiteness  ; whence  she  was  called 
the  swan-born,  beautiful  Helen.” 


128 


LAOCOON. 


co?  si  rig  xov  zlscpavra  fiuipu  IctfiTtQa  7togq)i\.  + 
dsiQr]  [ACtXQa,,  xuTcdevxdg,  o&zv  efiv&ovQytj&rj 
xvxvoysvrj  ttjv  svonxov  'EXsvqv  ^Qi][iati^siv9 
it  is  like  seeing  stones  rolled  up  a mountain,1  on  whose 
summit  they  are  to  be  built  into  a gorgeous  edifice  ; 
but  which  all  roll  down  of  themselves  on  the  other 
side.  What  picture  does  this  crowd  of  words  leave 
behind?  How  did  Helen  look?  No  two  readers 
out  of  a thousand  would  receive  the  same  impression 
of  her. 

But  political  verses  by  a monk  are,  it  is  true,  no 
poetry.  Let  us  hear  Ariosto  describe  his  enchantress 
Alcina:  2—» 

1 See  Appendix,  note  43. 

2 Orlando  Furioso,  canto  vii.  st.  1 1— 1 5. 

Her  shape  is  of  such  perfect  symmetry. 

As  best  to  feign  the  industrious  painter  knows  ; 

With  long  and  knotted  tresses  ; to  the  eye 
Not  yellow  gold  with  brighter  lustre  glows. 

Upon  her  tender  cheek  the  mingled  dye 
Is  scattered  of  the  lily  and  the  rose. 

Like  ivory  smooth,  the  forehead  gay  and  round 
Fills  up  the  space  and  forms  a fitting  bound. 

Two  black  and  slender  arches  rise  above 

Two  clear  black  eyes,  say  suns  of  radiant  light, 

Which  ever  softly  beam  and  slowly  move ; 

Round  these  appears  to  sport  in  frolic  flight, 

Hence  scattering  all  his  shafts,  the  little  Love, 

And  seems  to  plunder  hearts  in  open  sight. 

Thence,  through  ’mid  visage,  does  the  nose  descend, 
Where  envy  finds  not  blemish  to  amend. 

As  if  between  two  vales,  which  softly  curl, 

The  mouth  with  vermeil  tint  is  seen  to  glow ; 


LAOCOON. 


129 


Di  persona  era  tanto  ben  formata, 

Quanto  mai  finger  san  pittori  industri. 

Con  bionda  chioma,  lunga  e annodata, 

Oro  non  e,  che  piu  risplenda  e lustri. 

Spargeasi  per  la  guancia  delicata 
Misto  color  di  rose  e di  ligustri . 

Di  terso  avorio  era  la  fronte  lieta, 

Che  lo  spazio  finia  con  giusta  meta. 

Sotto  due  negri,  e sottilissimi  archi 
Son  due  negri,  occhi,  anzi  due  chiari  soli 
Pietosi  a riguardar,  a mover  parchi, 

Intorno  a cui  par  ch’  Amor  scherzi,  e voli. 

Within  are  strung  two  rows  of  orient  pearl. 

Which  her  delicious  lips  shut  up  or  show, 

Of  force  to  melt  the  heart  of  any  churl, 

However  rude,  hence  courteous  accents  flow  ; 

And  here  that  gentle  smile  receives  its  birth, 

Which  opes  at  will  a paradise  on  earth. 

Like  milk  the  bosom,  and  the  neck  of  snow ; 

Round  is  the  neck,  and  full  and  round  the  breast ; 
Where,  fresh  and  firm,  two  ivory  apples  grow, 

Which  rise  and  fall,  as,  to  the  margin  pressed 
By  pleasant  breeze,  the  billows  come  and  go. 

Not  prying  Argus  could  discern  the  rest. 

Yet  might  the  observing  eye  of  things  concealed 
Conjecture  safely  from  the  charms  revealed. 

To  all  her  arms  a just  proportion  bear, 

And  a white  hand  is  oftentimes  descried, 

Which  narrow  is  and  somedeal  long,  and  where 
No  ki»ot  appears  nor  vein  is  signified. 

For  finish  of  that  stately  shape  and  rare, 

A foot,  neat,  short,  and  round  beneath  is  spied. 
Angelic  visions,  creatures  of  the  sky, 

Concealed  beneath  no  covering  veil  can  lie. 

William  Stewart  Rose. 


9 


130 


LAOCOON. 


E ch’  indi  tutta  la  faretra  scarchi, 

E che  visibilmente  i cori  involi. 

Quindi  il  naso  per  mezzo  il  viso  scende 
Che  non  trova  1’  invidia  ove  1’  emende. 

Sotto  quel  sta,  quasi  fra  due  vallette, 

La  bocca  sparsa  di  natio  cinabro, 

Quivi  due  filze  son  di  perle  elette, 

Che  chiude,  ed  apre  un  bello  e dolce  labro; 

Quindi  escon  le  cortesi  parolette, 

Da  render  molle  ogni  cor  rozzo  e scabro ; 

Quivi  si  forma  quel  soave  riso, 

Ch’  apre  a sua  posta  in  terra  il  paradiso. 

Bianca  neve  e il  pel  collo,  e ’1  petto  latte, 

Il  collo  & tondo,  il  petto  colmo  e largo ; 

Due  pome  acerbe,  e pur  d’  avorio  fatte, 

Vengono  e van,  come  onda  al  primo  margo, 

Quando  piacevole  aura  il  mar  combatte. 

Non  potria  1’  altre  parti  veder  Argo, 

Ben  si  puo  giudicar,  che  corrisponde, 

A quel  ch’  appar  di  fuor,  quel  che  s’  asconde. 

Mostran  le  braccia  sua  misura  giusta, 

Et  la  Candida  man  spesso  si  vede, 

Lunghetta  alquanto,  e di  larghezza  angusta, 

Dove  n&  nodo  appar,  ne  vena  eccede. 

Si  vede  al  fin  de  la  persona  augusta 
Il  breve,  asciutto,  e ritondetto  piede. 

Gli  angelici  sembianti  nati  in  cielo 
Non  si  ponno  celar  sotto  alcun  velo. 

Milton,  speaking  of  Pandemonium,  says  : — 

The  work  some  praise,  and  some  the  architect. 

Praise  of  one,  then,  is  not  always  praise  of  the  other. 
A work  of  art  may  merit  great  approbation  without 
redounding  much  to  the  credit  of  the  artist ; and, 


LAOCOON. 


131 

again,  an  artist  may  justly  claim  our  admiration,  even 
when  his  work  does  not  entirely  satisfy  us.  By 
bearing  this  in  mind  we  can  often  reconcile  contra- 
dictory  judgments,  as  in  the  present  case.  Dolce, 
in  his  dialogues  on  painting,  makes  Aretino  speak 
in  terms  of  the  highest  praise  of  the  above-quoted 
stanzas,1  while  I select  them  as  an  instance  of  paint 
ing  without  picture.  We  are  both  right.  Dolce 
admires  the  knowledge  of  physical  beauty  which  the 
poet  shows : I consider  only  the  effect  which  this 
knowledge,  conveyed  in  words,  produces  on  my 
imagination.  Dolce  concludes  from  this  knowledge 
that  good  poets  are  no  less  good  painters : I,  judg- 
ing from  the  effect,  conclude  that  what  painters  can 
best  express  by  lines  and  colors  is  least  capable  of 
expression  in  words.  Dolce  recommends  Ariosto’s 
description  to  all  painters  as  a perfect  model  of  a 
beautiful  woman : I recommend  it  to  all  poets  as  the 
most  instructive  of  warnings  not  to  attempt,  with 
still  greater  want  of  success,  what  could  not  but 
fail  when  tried  by  an  Ariosto. 

It  may  be  that  when  the  poet  says,  — 

Di  persona  era  tanto  ben  formata, 

Quanto  mai  finger  san  pittori  industri, 

he  proves  himself  to  have  had  a complete  knowledge 
of  the  laws  of  perspective,  such  as  only  the  most 
industrious  artist  can  acquire  from  a study  of  nature 
and  of  ancient  art.2 

In  the  words,  — 


1 See  Appendix,  note  44. 


2 See  Appendix,  note  45, 


132 


LAOCOON. 


Spargeasi  per  la  guancia  delicata 
Misto  color  di  rose  e di  ligustri, 

he  may  show  himself  to  be  a perfect  master  of 
color,  — a very  Titian.1  His  comparing  Alcina’s 
hair  to  gold,  instead  of  calling  it  golden  hair,  may 
be  taken  as  proof  that  he  objected  to  the  use  of 
actual  gold  in  coloring.2  We  may  even  discover  in 
the  descending  nose  the  profile  of  those  old  Greek 
noses,  afterwards  borrowed  by  Roman  artists  from 
the  Greek  masterpieces.8  Of  what  use  is  all  this 
insight  and  learning  to  us  readers  who  want  to 
fancy  we  are  looking  at  a beautiful  woman,  and 
desire  to  feel  that  gentle  quickening  of  the  pulses 
which  accompanies  the  sight  of  actual  beauty  ? The 
poet  may  know  the  relations  from  which  beauty 
springs,  but  does  that  make  us  know  them  ? Or,  if 
we  know  them,  does  he  show  them  to  us  here?  or 
does  he  help  us  in  the  least  to  call  up  a vivid  image 
of  them? 

A brow  that  forms  a fitting  bound, 

Che  lo  spazio  finia  con  giusta  meta ; 

A nose  where  envy  itself  finds  nothing  to  amend, 

Che  non  trova  P invidia,  ove  P emende ; 

A hand,  narrow,  and  somewhat  long, 

Lunghetta  alquanto,  e di  larghezza  angusta ; 

what  sort  of  a picture  do  these  general  formulae  give 
us  ? In  the  mouth  of  a drawing-master,  directing 
his  pupils’  attention  to  the  beauties  of  the  academic 
model,  they  might  have  some  meaning.  For  the 

1 See  Appendix,  note  46.  2 See  Appendix,  note  47, 

8 See  Appendix,  note  48. 


LAOCOON. 


133 


students  would  have  but  to  look  at  the  model  to  see 
the  fitting  bounds  of  the  gay  forehead,  the  fine  cut 
of  the  nose,  and  the  slenderness  of  the  pretty  hand. 
But  in  the  poem  I see  nothing,  and  am  only  tor- 
mented by  the  futility  of  all  my  attempts  to  see 
any  thing. 

In  this  respect  Virgil,  by  imitating  Homer’s  reti- 
cence, has  achieved  tolerable  success.  His  Dido  is 
only  the  most  beautiful  ( pulcherrima ) Dido.  Any 
further  details  which  he  may  give,  have  reference  to 
her  rich  ornaments  and  magnificent  dress. 

Tandem  progreditur  . . . 

Sidoniam  picto  chlamydem  circumdata  limbo  1 
Cui  pharetra  ex  auro,  crines  nodantur  in  aurum, 

Aurea  purpuream  subnectit  fibula  vestem.1 * * * 

If,  on  this  account,  any  should  apply  to  him  what 
the  old  artist  said  to  one  of  his  pupils  who  had 
painted  a gayly  decked  Helen,  — “ Since  you  could 
not  paint  her  beautiful,  you  have  painted  her  rich,5’ 
— Virgil  would  answer : “ I am  not  to  blame  that  I 
could  not  paint  her  beautiful.  The  fault  lies  in  the 
limits  of  my  art,  within  which  it  is  my  merit  to  have 
kept.” 

I must  not  forget  here  the  two  odes  of  Anacreon 
wherein  he  analyzes  the  beauty  of  his  mistress  and 

1 ALneid  iv.  136. 

The  queen  at  length  appears  ; 

A flowered  cymar  with  golden  fringe  she  wore, 

And  at  her  back  a golden  quiver  bore ; 

Her  flowing  hair  a golden  caul  restrains ; 

A golden  clasp  the  Tyrian  robe  sustains. — Drydex 


1 34 


LAOCOON. 


of  Bathyllus.1  The  device  which  he  uses  entirely 
justifies  the  analysis.  He  imagines  that  he  has 
before  him  a painter  who  is  working  from  his  descrip- 
tion. “ Thus  paint  me  the  hair,”  he  says ; “ thus 
the  brow,  the  eyes,  the  mouth ; thus  the  neck  and 
bosom,  the  thighs  and  hands.”  As  the  artist  could 
execute  but  one  detail  at  a time,  the  poet  was 
obliged  to  give  them  to  him  thus  piecemeal.  His 
object  is  not  to  make  us  see  and  feel,  in  these 
spoken  directions  to  the  painter,  the  whole  beauty  of 
the  beloved  object.  He  is  conscious  of  the  inade- 
quacy of  all  verbal  expression ; and  for  that  reason 
summons  to  his  aid  the  expression  of  art,  whose 
power  of  illusion  he  so  extols,  that  the  whole  song 
seems  rather  a eulogium  of  art  than  of  his  lady. 
He  sees  not  the  picture  but  herself,  and  fancies  she 
is  about  to  open  her  mouth  to  speak. 

cc7Ts%ei'  fiXmco  yuQ  dvzrjv. 

t d%a,  xijQS,  xai  Xahjaeig. 

So,  too,  in  his  ode  to  Bathyllus,  the  praises  of  the 
beautiful  boy  are  so  mingled  with  praises  of  art  and 
the  artist,  that  we  are  in  doubt  in  whose  honor  the 
song  was  really  written.  He  selects  the  most  beau- 
tiful parts  from  various  pictures,  the  parts  for  which 
the  pictures  were  remarkable.  He  takes  the  neck 
from  an  Adonis,  breast  and  hands  from  a Mercury, 
the  thighs  from  a Pollux,  the  belly  from  a Bacchus, 
until  he  has  the  whole  Bathyllus  as  a finished  Apollo 
from  the  artist’s  hand. 


1 Od.  xxviii.,  xxix. 


LAOCOON. 


US 


Hezcc  8s  TtQOGomov  sozco , 
zov  'A8(on8og  TtuQeXft covf 
sXscpavnvog  ZQayrfXog' 

[iszapdi^iov  8s  tcolsi 
8i8v[iag  zs  xsTqag  Eq^ov, 

IIoXv8zvxzog  8s  [iijQovg, 

/hovvolrjv  8s  V7j8vv. 

• • • • 

zov  ArtoXXovva  8s  zovzov 
xa&eXmv,  nolsi  Bd&vXXov. 

Thus  Lucian,  to  give  an  idea  of  the  beauty  of 
Panthea,  points  to  the  most  beautiful  female  statues 
by  the  old  sculptors.1  What  is  this  but  a confession 
that  here  language  of  itself  is  powerless  ; that  poetry 
stammers,  and  eloquence  grows  dumb,  unless  art 
serve  as  interpreter. 

A E Uovec,  § 3,  T.  ii.  p.  461  (edit.  Reitx). 


LAOCOON. 


136 


XXI. 

But  are  we  not  robbing  poetry  of  too  much  by  taking 
from  her  all  pictures  of  physical  beauty  ? 

Who  seeks  to  take  them  from  her  ? We  are  only 
warning  her  against  trying  to  arrive  at  them  by  a 
particular  road,  where  she  will  blindly  grope  her 
way  in  the  footsteps  of  a sister  art  without  ever 
ieaching  the  goal.  We  are  not  closing  against  her 
other  roads  whereon  art  can  follow  only  with  her 
eyes. 

Homer  himself,  who  so  persistently  refrains  from 
all  detailed  descriptions  of  physical  beauty,  that  we 
barely  learn,  from  a passing  mention,  that  Helen 
had  white  arms 1 and  beautiful  hair,2  even  he  man- 
ages nevertheless  to  give  us  an  idea  of  her  beauty, 
which  far  surpasses  any  thing  that  art  could  do. 
Recall  the  passage  where  Helen  enters  the  assembly 
of  the  Trojan  elders.  The  venerable  men  see  her 
coming,  and  one  says  to  the  others  : 8 — 

1 Iliad  iii.  121.  2 Ibid.  319. 

3 Ibid.  156-158. 

Small  blame  is  theirs  if  both  the  Trojan  knights 
And  brazen-mailed  Achaians  have  endured 
So  long  so  many  evils  for  the  sake 
Of  that  one  woman.  She  is  wholly  like 
In  feature  to  the  deathless  goddesses.  — Bryani. 


LAOCOON. 


137 


Ov  vt'nEGtg  T(jwug  uca  tvxv?][Mdag  * Aycaovg 
TOi  fitf  d[A(pl  yvvcuxi  TtoXvv  %qovov  aly&cx.  Ttda^&iv’ 
aivojg  d&avdzriai  tferjg  sig  dona  eomsv. 

What  can  give  a more  vivid  idea  of  her  beauty  than 
that  cold-blooded  age  should  deem  it  well  worth  the 
war  which  had  cost  so  much  blood  and  so  many 
tears  ? 

What  Homer  could  not  describe  in  its  details,  he 
shows  us  by  its  effect.  Paint  us,  ye  poets,  the  de- 
light, the  attraction,  the  love,  the  enchantment  of 
beauty,  and  you  have  painted  beauty  itself.  Who 
can  think  of  Sappho’s  beloved,  the  sight  of  whom, 
as  she  confesses,  robs  her  of  sense  and  thought,  as 
ugly?  We  seem  to  be  gazing  on  a beautiful  and 
perfect  form,  when  we  sympathize  with  the  emotions 
which  only  such  a form  can  produce.  It  is  not  Ovid’s 
minute  description  of  the  beauties  of  his  Lesbia,  — 

Quos  humeros,  quales  vidi  tetigique  lacertos ! 

Forma  papillarum  quam  fuit  apta  premi ! 

Quam  castigato  planus  sub  pectore  venter  ! 

Quantum  et  quale  latus  ! quam  juvenile  femur ! 

that  makes  us  fancy  we  are  enjoying  the  same  sight 
which  he  enjoyed ; but  because  he  gives  the  details 
with  a sensuousness  which  stirs  the  passions. 

Yet  another  way  in  which  poetry  surpasses  art 
in  the  description  of  physical  beauty,  is  by  turning 
beauty  into  charm.  Charm  is  beauty  in  motion,  and 
therefore  less  adapted  to  the  painter  than  the  poet. 
The  painter  can  suggest  motion,  but  his  figures  are 
really  destitute  of  it.  Charm  therefore  in  a picture 


138 


LAOCOON. 


becomes  grimace,  while  in  poetry  it  remains  what 
it  is,  a transitory  beauty,  which  we  would  fain  see 
repeated.  It  comes  and  goes,  and  since  we  can 
recall  a motion  more  vividly  and  easily  than  mere 
forms  and  colors,  charm  must  affect  us  more  strongly 
than  beauty  under  the  same  conditions.  All  that 
touches  and  pleases  in  the  picture  of  Alcina  is 
charm.  Her  eyes  impress  us  not  from  their  black- 
ness and  fire,  but  because  they  are  — 

Pietosi  a riguardar,  a mover  parchi, 

they  move  slowly  and  with  gracious  glances,  because 
Cupid  sports  around  them  and  shoots  from  them 
his  arrows.  Her  mouth  pleases,  not  because  ver- 
milion lips  enclose  two  rows  of  orient  pearls,  but 
because  of  the  gentle  smile,  which  opens  a paradise 
on  earth,  and  of  the  courteous  accents  that  melt  the 
rudest  heart.  The  enchantment  of  her  bosom  lies 
not  so  much  in  the  milk  and  ivory  and  apples,  that 
typify  its  whiteness  and  graceful  form,  as  in  its 
gentle  heavings,  like  the  rise  and  fall  of  waves  under 
a pleasant  breeze. 

Due  pome  acerbe,  e pur  d’  avorio  fatte, 

Vengono  e van,  come  onda  al  primo  margo, 

Quando  piacevole  aura  il  mar  combatte. 

I am  convinced  that  such  traits  as  these,  compressed 
into  one  or  two  stanzas,  would  be  far  more  effective 
than  the  five  over  which  Ariosto  has  spread  them, 
interspersed  with  cold  descriptions  of  form  much 
too  learned  for  our  sensibilities. 

Anacreon  preferred  the  apparent  absurdity  of  re- 


LAOCOON. 


139 


quiring  impossibilities  of  the  artist,  to  leaving  the 
image  of  his  mistress  unenlivened  with  these  mobile 
charms. 

ZQVCf£QOV  d ’ £6(0  y£V£lOV 
TtEQi,  Xvydivcp  TQayrjkco 
XuQirsg  rthoivxo  Ttaaou. 

He  bids  the  artist  let  all  the  graces  hover  about 
her  tender  chin  and  marble  neck.  How  so  ? literally  ? 
But  that  is  beyond  the  power  of  art.  The  painter 
could  give  the  chin  the  most  graceful  curve  and  the 
prettiest  dimple,  Amoris  digitulo  impressum  (for  the 
taco  here  seems  to  me  to  mean  dimple) ; he  could 
give  the  neck  the  softest  pink,  but  that  is  all.  The 
motion  of  that  beautiful  neck,  the  play  of  the  mus- 
cles, now  deepening  and  now  half  concealing  the 
dimple,  the  essential  charm  exceeded  his  powers. 
The  poet  went  to  the  limits  of  his  art  in  the  attempt 
to  give  us  a vivid  picture  of  beauty,  in  order  that 
the  painter  might  seek  the  highest  expression  in 
his.  Here  we  have,  therefore,  a fresh  illustration 
of  what  was  urged  above,  that  the  poet,  even  when 
speaking  of  a painting  or  statue,  is  not  bound  to 
confine  his  description  within  the  limits  of  art. 


140 


LA0C00N. 


XXII. 

Zeuxis  painted  a Helen,  and  had  the  courage  to 
write  beneath  his  picture  those  famous  lines  of 
Homer  wherein  the  elders  express  their  admiration 
of  her  beauty.  Never  did  painting  and  poetry  engage 
in  closer  rivalry.  Victory  remained  undecided,  and 
both  deserved  to  be  crowned. 

For  as  the  wise  poet  showed  us  only  in  its  effects 
the  beauty  which  he  felt  the  impossibility  of  describ- 
ing in  detail,  so  the  equally  wise  painter  exhibited 
beauty  solely  through  its  details,  deeming  it  unworthy 
of  his  art  to  have  recourse  to  any  outward  aids. 
His  whole  picture  was  the  naked  figure  of  Helen. 
For  it  was  probably  the  same  that  he  painted  for  the 
people  of  Cortona.1 

Let  us,  for  curiosity’s  sake,  compare  with  this  Cay- 
lus’s  picture  as  sketched  for  modern  artists  from  the 
same  lines  of  Homer. 

“ Helen,  covered  with  a white  veil,  appears  in  the 
midst  of  several  old  men,  Priam  among  the  number, 
who  should  be  at  once  recognizable  by  the  emblems 
of  his  royal  dignity.  The  artist  must  especially  ex- 
ert his  skill  to  make  us  feel  the  triumph  of  beauty 

1 Val.  Maximus  lib.  iii.  cap.  7.  Dionysius  Halicarnass. 
Art.  Rhet.  cap.  12.  nepl  hoyuv  k^aaeug. 


LAOCOON. 


141 

in  the  eager  glances  and  expressions  of  astonished 
admiration  on  the  countenances  of  the  old  men. 
The  scene  is  over  one  of  the  gates  of  the  town. 
The  background  of  the  painting  may  be  lost  either 
in  the  open  sky  or  against  the  higher  buildings  of 
the  town.  The  first  would  be  the  bolder,  but  the 
one  would  be  as  suitable  as  the  other.” 

Imagine  this  picture,  executed  by  the  greatest 
master  of  our  time,  and  compare  it  with  the  work  of 
Zeuxis.  Which  will  show  the  real  triumph  of  beauty  ? 
This,  where  I feel  it  myself,  or  that,  where  I am  to 
infer  it  from  the  grimaces  of  admiring  graybeards  ? 
“ Turpe  senilis  amor  ! ” Looks  of  desire  make  the 
most  reverend  face  ridiculous,  and  an  old  man  who 
shows  the  cravings  of  youth  is  an  object  of  disgust. 
This  reproach  cannot  be  brought  against  the  Homeric 
elders.  Theirs  is  but  a passing  spark  of  feeling 
which  wisdom  instantly  stifles ; an  emotion  which 
does  honor  to  Helen  without  disgracing  them- 
selves. They  acknowledge  their  admiration,  but  add 
at  once, 1 — 

aXXa  ncu  dig,  xoit]  nsg  sova,  kv  vtjvgi  vsta&coy 
[ir]d'  7\[dv  rexhaai  % omaaco  nr^ia  X incur  o. 

This  decision  saves  them  from  being  the  old  cox- 
combs which  they  look  like  in  Caylus’s  picture. 
And  what  is  the  sight  that  fixes  their  eager  looks  ? 
A veiled,  muffled  figure.  Is  that  Helen  ? I cannof 

1 So  be  it ; let  her,  peerless  as  she  is, 

Return  on  board  the  fleet,  nor  stay  to  bring 
Disaster  upon  us  and  all  our  race.  — Bryant. 


142 


LAOCOON. 


conceive  what  induced  Caylus  to  make  her  wear  a 
veil.  Homer,  to  be  sure,  expressly  gives  her  one, 

avtUct  d ’ ccQyevvrjGi  yaXvxpafievrj  o&ovtigiv 

WQliax  I*  ^aXafioio, 

“ She  left  her  chamber,  robed  and  veiled  in  white,*'1 

but  only  to  cross  the  street  in.  And  although  he 
makes  the  elders  express  their  admiration  before  she 
could  have  had  time  to  take  it  off  or  throw  it  back, 
yet  they  were  not  seeing  her  then  for  the  first  time. 
Their  confession  need  not  therefore  have  been  caused 
by  the  present  hasty  glance.  They  might  often 
have  felt  what,  on  this  occasion,  they  first  acknowl- 
edged. There  is  nothing  of  this  in  the  picture. 
When  I behold  the  ecstasy  of  those  old  men,  I want 
to  see  the  cause,  and,  as  I say,  am  exceedingly 
surprised  to  perceive  nothing  but  a veiled,  muffled 
figure,  at  which  they  are  staring  with  such  devotion. 
What  of  Helen  is  there  ? Her  white  veil  and  some- 
thing of  her  outline,  as  far  as  outline  can  be  traced 
beneath  drapery.  But  perhaps  the  Count  did  not 
mean  that  her  face  should  be  covered.  In  that  case, 
although  his  words  — “ Helene  couverte  d’un  voile 
blanc  ’’-—hardly  admit  of  such  an  interpretation, 
another  point  excites  my  surprise.  He  recommends 
to  the  artist  great  care  in  the  expression  of  the  old 
men’s  faces,  and  wastes  not  a word  upon  the  beauty 
of  Helen’s.  This  modest  beauty,  approaching  tim- 
idly, her  eyes  moist  with  repentant  tears,  — is,  then, 
the  highest  beauty  so  much  a matter  of  course  to 
our  artists,  that  they  need  not  be.  reminded  of  it?  or 


LAOCOON. 


143 


is  expression  more  than  beauty?  or  is  it  with  pic- 
tures as  with  the  stage,  where  we  are  accustomed  to 
accept  the  ugliest  of  actresses  for  a ravishing  prin- 
cess, if  her  prince  only  express  the  proper  degree 
of  passion  for  her. 

Truly  this  picture  of  Caylus  would  be  to  that  of 
Zeuxis  as  pantomime  to  the  most  sublime  of  poetry. 

Homer  was  unquestionably  more  read  formerly 
than  now,  yet  we  do  not  find  mention  of  many 
pictures  drawn  from  him  even  by  the  old  artists.1 
They  seem  diligently  to  have  availed  themselves  of 
any  individual  physical  beauties  which  he  may  have 
pointed  out.  They  painted  these,  well  knowing  that 
in  this  department  alone  they  could  vie  with  the 
poet  with  any  chance  of  success.  Zeuxis  painted 
besides  Helen  a Penelope,  and  the  Diana  of  Apelles 
was  the  goddess  of  Homer  attended  by  her  nymphs. 

I will  take  this  opportunity  of  saying  that  the 
passage  in  Pliny  referring  to  this  picture  of  Apelles 
needs  correcting.2  But  to  paint  scenes  from  Homer 
merely  because  they  afforded  a rich  composition, 
striking  contrasts,  and  artistic  shading,  seems  not  to 
have  been  to  the  taste  of  the  old  artists  ; nor  could 
it  be,  so  long  as  art  kept  within  the  narrow  limits  of 
its  own  high  calling.  They  fed  upon  the  spirit  of 
the  poet,  and  filled  their  imagination  with  his  noblest 
traits.  The  fire  of  his  enthusiasm  kindled  theirs. 
They  saw  and  felt  with  him.  Thus  their  works 
became  copies  of  the  Homeric,  not  in  the  relation  of 

1 Fabricii  Biblioth.  Graec.  lib.  ii.  cap.  6,  p.  345. 

2 See  Appendix,  note  49. 


144 


LAOCOON. 


portrait  to  original,  but  in  the  relation  of  a son  to  a 
father,  — like,  but  different.  The  whole  resemblance 
often  lies  in  a single  trait,  the  other  parts  being 
alike  in  nothing  but  in  their  harmony  with  that. 

Since,  moreover,  the  Homeric  masterpieces  of 
poetry  were  older  than  any  masterpiece  of  art,  for 
Homer  had  observed  nature  with  the  eye  of  an 
artist  before  either  Phidias  or  Apelles,  the  artists 
naturally  found  ready  made  in  his  poems  many 
valuable  observations,  which  they  had  not  yet  had 
time  to  make  for  themselves.  These  they  eagerly 
seized  upon,  in  order  that,  through  Homer,  they 
might  copy  nature.  Phidias  acknowledged  that  the 
lines,1  — 

’//  xai  xvavtrjGiv  hi  ocpQvci  vsvgs  Kqwicqv 
dfifiQOGicu  d ’ dgcc  ycuxca  htwqc^Gavxo  avaxrog 
TiQurog  dri  d&avdxmo'  fisyav  5’  hsh&v’OlvfiTtov, 

served  him  as  the  model  of  his  Olympian  Jupiter, 
and  that  only  through  their  help  had  he  succeeded  in 
making  a godlike  countenance,  “propemodum  ex 
ipso  coelo  petitum.”  Whoever  understands  by  this 
merely  that  the  imagination  of  the  artist  was  fired 
by  the  poet’s  sublime  picture,  and  thus  made  capable 
of  equally  sublime  representations,  overlooks,  I think, 

1 Iliad  i.  528.  Valerius  Maximus,  lib.  iii.  cap.  7. 

As  thus  he  spoke  the  son  of  Saturn  gave 

The  nod  with  his  dark  brows.  The  ambrosial  curls 

Upon  the  Sovereign  One’s  immortal  head 

Were  shaken,  and  with  them  the  mighty  mount 

Olympus  trembled. — Bryant. 


LAOCOON. 


145 


the  chief  point,  and  contents  himself  with  a gen- 
eral statement  where  something  very  special  and 
much  more  satisfactory  is  meant.  Phidias  here 
acknowledges  also,  as  I understand  him,  that  this 
passage  first  led  him  to  notice  how  much  expression 
lies  in  the  eyebrows,  “ quanta  pars  animi  ” is  shown 
in  them.  Perhaps  it  further  induced  him  to  bestow 
more  attention  upon  the  hair,  in  order  to  express  in 
some  degree  what  Homer  calls  ambrosial  curls. 
For  it  is  certain  that  the  old  artists  before  Phidias 
had  very  little  idea  of  the  language  and  significance 
of  the  features,  and  particularly  neglected  the  hair. 
Even  Myron  was  faulty  in  both  these  respects,  as 
Pliny  observes,1  and,  according  to  the  same  author- 
ity, Pythagoras  Leontinus  was  the  first  who  dis- 
tinguished himself  by  the  beauty  of  his  hair.  Other 
artists  learned  from  the  works  of  Phidias  what 
Phidias  had  learned  from  Homer. 

I will  mention  another  example  of  the  same  kind 
which  has  always  given  me  particular  pleasure.  Ho- 
garth passes  the  following  criticism  on  the  Apollo 
Belvidere.2  “These  two  masterpieces  of  art,  the 
Apollo  and  the  Antinous,  are  seen  together  in 
the  same  palace  at  Rome,  where  the  Antinous  fills 
the  spectator  with  admiration  only,  whilst  the  Apollo 
strikes  him  with  surprise,  and,  as  travellers  express 
themselves,  with  an  appearance  of  something  more 
than  human,  which  they  of  course  are  always  at  a 
loss  to  describe ; and  this  effect,  they  say,  is  the  more 

1 See  Appendix,  note  50. 

2 Hogarth’s  Analysis  of  Beauty,  chap.  xi« 

10 


146 


LAOCOQN. 


astonishing,  as,  upon  examination,  its  disproportion 
is  evident  even  to  a common  eye.  One  of  the  best 
sculptors  we  have  in  England,  who  lately  went  to 
see  them,  confirmed  to  me  what  has  been  now  said, 
particularly  as  to  the  legs  and  thighs  being  too  long 
and  too  large  for  the  upper  parts.  And  Andrea 
Sacchi,  one  of  the  great  Italian  painters,  seems  to 
have  been  of  the  same  opinion,  or  he  would  hardly 
have  given  his  Apollo,  crowning  Pasquilini  the  musi- 
cian, the  exact  proportion  of  the  Antinous  (in  a 
famous  picture  of  his  now  in  England),  as  otherwise 
it  seems  to  be  a direct  copy  from  the  Apollo. 

“Although  in  very  great  works  we  often  see  an 
inferior  part  neglected,  yet  here  this  cannot  be  the 
case,  because  in  a fine  statue,  just  proportion  is  one 
of  its  essential  beauties ; therefore  it  stands  to 
reason,  that  these  limbs  must  have  been  lengthened 
on  purpose,  otherwise  it  might  easily  have  been 
avoided. 

“ So  that  if  we  examine  the  beauties  of  this  figure 
thoroughly,  we  may  reasonably  conclude,  that  what 
has  been  hitherto  thought  so  unaccountably  excel- 
lent in  its  general  appearance,  hath  been  owing  to 
what  hath  seemed  a blemish  in  a part  of  it.” 

All  this  is  very  suggestive.  Homer  also,  I would 
add,  had  already  felt  and  noticed  the  same  thing,  — - 
that  an  appearance  of  nobility  is  produced  by  a dis- 
proportionate size  of  the  foot  and  thigh.  For,  when 
Antenor  is  comparing  the  figure  of  Ulysses  with 
that  of  Menelaus,  he  says,1  — 


1 Iliad  iii.  21a 


LAOCOON. 


147 


aravtcov  per  Msvslaog  vtceiqex^  zvQeag  ojfiO[Agy 
a[A(pco  f?  8^0[asv(o,  yEQdQCOTEQog  tjev  ’ Odvaaevg . 

“When  both  were  standing  Menelaus  overtopped 
him  by  his  broad  shoulders ; but  when  both  were 
sitting,  Ulysses  was  the  more  majestic.”  Since, 
when  seated,  Ulysses  gained  in  dignity  what  Mene- 
laus lost,  we  can  easily  tell  the  proportion  which  the 
upper  part  of  the  body  in  each  bore  to  the  feet 
and  thighs.  In  Ulysses  the  upper  part  was  large  in 
proportion  to  the  lower : in  Menelaus  the  size  of  the 
lower  parts  was  large  in  proportion  to  that  of  the 
upper. 


I4§ 


LAOCOON. 


XXIII. 

A single  incongruous  part  may  destroy  the  harmo- 
nious effect  of  many  beauties,  without,  however, 
making  the  object  ugly.  Ugliness  requires  the 
presence  of  several  incongruous  parts  which  we 
must  be  able  to  take  in  at  a glance  if  the  effect  pro- 
duced is  to  be  the  opposite  of  that  which  we  call 
beauty. 

Accordingly  ugliness  in  itself  can  be  no  subject 
for  poetry.  Yet  Homer  has  described  its  extreme  in 
Thersites,  and  described  it  by  its  coexistent  parts. 
Why  did  he  allow  himself  in  the  case  of  ugliness 
what  he  wisely  refrained  from  as  regards  beauty  ? 
Will  not  the  effect  of  ugliness  be  as  much  hindered 
by  the  successive  enumeration  of  its  elements,  as 
the  effect  of  beauty  is  neutralized  by  a similar  treat- 
ment ? 

Certainly  it  will,  and  therein  lies  Homer’s  justifi- 
cation. The  poet  can  make  ugliness  his  theme  only 
because  it  acquires  through  his  description  a less 
repulsive  aspect,  and  ceases  in  a measure  to  produce 
the  effect  of  ugliness.  What  he  cannot  employ  by 
itself,  he  uses  as  an  ingredient  to  excite  and  strengthen 
certain  mixed  impressions,  with  which  he  must  enter- 
tain us  in  the  absence  of  those  purely  agreeable. 


LAOCOON. 


149 


These  mixed  sensations  are  those  of  the  ridio 
ulous  and  the  horrible. 

Homer  makes  Thersites  ugly  in  order  to  make 
him  ridiculous.  Mere  ugliness,  however,  would  not 
have  this  effect.  Ugliness  is  imperfection,  and  the 
ridiculous  requires  a contrast  between  perfections 
and  imperfections.1  This  is  the  explanation  of  my 
friend,  to  which  I would  add  that  this  contrast  must 
not  be  too  sharp  and  decided,  but  that  the  oppo- 
sites must  be  such  as  admit  of  being  blended  into 
each  other.  All  the  ugliness  of  Thersites  has  not 
made  the  wise  and  virtuous  yEsop  ridiculous.  A 
silly,  monkish  conceit  sought  to  transfer  to  the 
writer  the  ysloiov  of  his  instructive  fables  by  repre- 
senting his  person  as  deformed.  But  a misshapen 
body  and  a beautiful  soul  are  like  oil  and  vinegar, 
which,  however  much  they  may  be  stirred  together, 
will  always  remain  distinct  to  the  taste.  They  give 
rise  to  no  third.  Each  one  produces  its  own  effect, 
— the  body  distaste,  the  soul  delight.  The  two 
emotions  blend  into  one  only  when  the  misshapen 
body  is  at  the  same  time  frail  and  sickly,  a hinder- 
ance  and  source  of  injury  to  the  mind.  The  result, 
however,  is  not  laughter,  but  compassion ; and  the 
object,  which  before  we  had  simply  respected,  now 
excites  our  interest.  The  frail,  misshapen  Pope 
must  have  been  more  interesting  to  his  friends  than 
the  strong,  handsome  Wycherley. 

But  although  Thersites  is  not  ridiculous  on  account 

1 Philos.  Schriften  des  Herrn  Moses  Mendelssohn,  vol.  ii. 
P-  23. 


LAOCOON. 


ISO 

of  his  ugliness  alone,  he  would  not  be  ridiculous 
without  it.  Many  elements  work  together  to  produce 
this  result ; the  ugliness  of  his  person  corresponding 
with  that  of  his  character,  and  both  contrasting 
with  the  idea  he  entertains  of  his  own  importance, 
t jgether  with  the  harmlessness,  except  to  himself, 
of  his  malicious  tongue.  The  last  point  is  the  ov 
cp&aQTixov  (the  undeadly),  which  Aristotle1  takes  to 
be  an  indispensable  element  of  the  ridiculous.  My 
friend  also  makes  it  a necessary  condition  that  the 
contrast  should  be  unimportant,  and  not  interest  us 
greatly.  For,  suppose  that  Thersites  had  had  to  pay 
dearly  for  his  spiteful  detraction  of  Agamemnon, 
that  it  had  cost  him  his  life  instead  of  a couple  of 
bloody  wales,  then  we  should  cease  to  laugh  at  him. 
To  test  the  justice  of  this,  let  us  read  his  death  in 
Quintus  Calaber.2  Achilles  regrets  having  slain 
Penthesilea.  Her  noble  blood,  so  bravely  shed, 
claims  the  hero’s  respect  and  compassion,  feelings 
which  soon  grow  into  love.  The  slanderous  Ther- 
sites turns  this  love  into  a crime.  He  inveighs 
against  the  sensuality  which  betrays  even  the  bravest 
of  men  into  follies : 

rfc  acpQOva  tyibzct  rid'rjGi 
ytal  Ttivvzov  ttsq  kovza. 

Achilles’  wrath  is  kindled.  Without  a word  he 
deals  him  such  a blow  between  cheek  and  ear 
that  teeth,  blood,  and  life  gush  from  the  wound. 
This  is  too  barbarous.  The  angry,  murderous  Achil- 

1 De  Poetica,  cap.  v.  2 Paralipom.  lib.  L 720-778. 


LAOCOON. 


151 

les  becomes  more  an  object  of  hate  to  me  than 
the  tricky,  snarling  Thersites.  The  shout  of  delight 
raised  by  the  Greeks  at  the  deed  offends  me.  My 
sympathies  are  with  Diomedes,  whose  sword  is  drawn 
on  the  instant  to  take  vengeance  on  the  murderer  of 
his  kinsman.  For  Thersites  as  a man  is  of  my  kin 
also. 

But  suppose  that  the  attempts  of  Thersites  had 
resulted  in  open  mutiny ; that  the  rebellious  people 
had  actually  taken  to  the  ships,  and  treacherously 
aoandoned  their  commanders,  who  thereupon  had 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  a vindictive  enemy ; and 
that  the  judgment  of  the  gods  had  decreed  total 
destruction  to  fleet  and  nation : how  should  we  then 
view  the  ugliness  of  Thersites  ? Although  harmless 
ugliness  may  be  ridiculous,  hurtful  ugliness  is  always 
horrible. 

I cannot  better  illustrate  this  than  by  a couple  of 
admirable  passages  from  Shakespeare.  Edmund, 
bastard  son  of  the  Earl  of  Gloucester  in  King  Lear, 
is  no  less  a villain  than  Richard,  Duke  of  Glouces- 
ter, who,  by  the  most  hideous  crimes,  paved  his  way 
to  the  throne,  which  he  ascended  under  the  title  of 
Richard  the  Third.  Why  does  he  excite  in  us 
far  less  disgust  and  horror?  When  the  bastard 
says,1  — 

Thou,  nature,  art  my  goddess  ; to  thy  law 
My  services  are  bound  ; wherefore  should  I 
Stand  in  the  plague  of  custom,  and  permit 
The  curiosity  of  nations  to  deprive  me, 


1 King  Lear,  Act  i.  scene  2. 


152 


LAOCOON. 


For  that  I am  some  twelve  or  fourteen  moonshines 
Lag  of  a brother  ? Why  bastard  ? wherefore  base  ? 
When  my  dimensions  are  as  well  compact, 

My  mind  as  generous,  and  my  shape  as  true 
As  honest  Madam’s  issue  ? why  brand  they  thus 
With  base  ? with  baseness  ? bastardy?  base,  base? 
Who,  in  the  lusty  stealth  of  nature,  take 
More  composition  and  fierce  quality, 

Than  doth,  within  a dull,  stale,  tired  bed, 

Go  to  creating  a whole  tribe  of  fops 
Got  ’tween  asleep  and  wake  ? 

I hear  a devil  speaking,  but  in  the  form  of  an  angel 
of  light. 

When,  on  the  contrary,  the  Earl  of  Gloucester 
says,1  — • 

But  I,  — that  am  not  shaped  for  sportive  tricks, 

Nor  made  to  court  an  amorous  looking-glass  ; 

I,  that  am  rudely  stamped,  and  want  love’s  majesty; 

To  strut  before  a wanton,  ambling  nymph ; 

I,  that  am  curtailed  of  this  fair  proportion, 

Cheated  of  feature  by  dissembling  nature, 

Deformed,  unfinished,  sent  before  my  time 
Into  this  breathing  world,  scarce  half  made  up, 

And  that  so  lamely  and  unfashionably, 

That  dogs  bark  at  me  as  I halt  by  them ; 

Why  I,  in  this  weak  piping  time  of  peace, 

Have  no  delight  to  pass  away  the  time ; 

Unless  to  spy  my  shadow  in  the  sun, 

And  descant  on  mine  own  deformity ; 

And,  therefore,  since  I cannot  prove  a lover, 

To  entertain  these  fair,  well-spoken  days, 

I am  determined  to  prove  a villain. 

I hear  a devil  and  see  a devil,  in  a shape  which  only 
the  devil  should  wear. 


1 King  Richard  III.  Act  i.  scene  i. 


LAOCOON 


iS3 


XXIV. 

Such  is  the  use  which  the  poet  makes  of  ugliness  of 
form.  How  can  the  painter  legitimately  employ 
it? 

Painting  as  imitative  skill  can  express  ugliness ; 
painting  as  a fine  art  will  not  express  it.  In  the 
former  capacity  its  sphere  extends  over  all  visible 
objects ; in  the  latter  it  confines  itself  to  those 
which  produce  agreeable  impressions. 

But  do  not  disagreeable  impressions  please  in  the 
imitation?  Not  all.  An  acute  critic  has  already 
remarked  this  in  respect  of  disgust.1  “ Representa- 
tions of  fear,”  he  says,  “ of  sadness,  horror,  com- 
passion, &c.,  arouse  painful  emotions  only  in  so  far 
as  we  believe  the  evil  to  be  actual.  The  considera- 
tion that  it  is  but  an  illusion  of  art  may  resolve 
these  disagreeable  sensations  into  those  of  pleasure. 
But,  according  to  the  laws  of  imagination,  the  dis- 
agreeable sensation  of  disgust  arises  from  the  mere 
representation  in  the  mind,  whether  the  object  be 
thought  actually  to  exist  or  not.  No  matter  how 
apparent  the  art  of  the  imitation,  our  wounded  sensi- 
bilities are  not  relieved.  Our  discomfort  arose  not 
from  the  belief  that  the  evil  was  actual,  but  from  the 

1 Briefe,  die  neueste  Literatur  betreffend,  Part  v.  p.  102. 


*54 


LAOCOON. 


mere  representation  which  is  actually  present  The 
feeling  of  disgust,  therefore,  comes  always  from 
nature,  never  from  imitation.” 

The  same  criticism  is  applicable  to  physical  ugli- 
ness, This  also  wounds  our  sight,  offends  our  taste 
for  order  and  harmony,  and  excites  aversion  without 
regard  to  the  actual  existence  of  the  object  in  which 
we  perceive  it.  We  wish  to  see  neither  Thersites 
himself  nor  his  image.  If  his  image  be  the  less 
displeasing,  the  reason  is  not  that  ugliness  of  shape 
ceases  to  be  ugly  in  the  imitation,  but  that  we  pos- 
sess the  power  of  diverting  our  minds  from  this 
ugliness  by  admiration  of  the  artist’s  skill.  But  this 
satisfaction  is  constantly  disturbed  by  the  thought 
of  the  unworthy  use  to  which  art  has  been  put,  and 
our  esteem  for  the  artist  is  thereby  greatly  dimin- 
ished. 

Aristotle  adduces  another  reason 1 for  the  pleasure 
we  take  in  even  the  most  faithful  copy  of  what  in 
nature  is  disagreeable.  He  attributes  this  pleasure 
to  man’s  universal  desire  for  knowledge.  We  are 
pleased  when  we  can  learn  from  a copy  n waatov, 
what  each  and  every  thing  is,  or  when  we  can  con- 
clude from  it  on  ovrog  txhvog,  that  it  is  the  very  thing 
we  already  know.  But  this  is  no  argument  in  favor 
of  the  imitation  of  ugliness.  The  pleasure  which 
arises  from  the  gratification  of  our  desire  for  knowl- 
edge is  momentary  and  only  incidental  to  the  object 
whh  regard  to  which  it  has  been  satisfied,  whereas 
the  discomfort  which  accompanies  the  sight  of  ugli- 

1 De  Poetica,  cap.  iv. 


LAOCOON. 


155 


ness  is  permanent,  and  essential  to  the  object  caus- 
ing it.  How,  then,  can  one  counterbalance  the  other  ? 
Still  less  can  the  trifling  entertainment  of  tracing  a 
likeness  overcome  the  unpleasant  impression  pro- 
duced by  ugliness.  The  more  closely  I compare  the 
ugly  copy  with  the  ugly  original,  the  more  I expose 
myself  to  this  influence,  so  that  the  pleasure  of 
the  comparison  soon  disappears,  leaving  nothing 
behind  but  the  painful  impression  of  this  twofold 
ugliness. 

From  the  examples  given  by  Aristotle  he  appears 
not  to  include  ugliness  of  form  among  the  disagree- 
able things  which  may  give  pleasure  in  the  imita- 
tion. His  examples  are  wild  beasts  and  dead  bodies. 
Wild  beasts  excite  terror  even  when  they  are  not 
ugly ; and  this  terror,  not  their  ugliness,  may  be 
made  to  produce  sensations  of  pleasure  through 
imitation.  So  also  of  dead  bodies.  Keenness  of 
sympathy,  the  dreadful  thought  of  our  own  anni- 
hilation, make  a dead  body  in  nature  an  object  of 
aversion.  In  the  imitation  the  sense  of  illusion 
robs  sympathy  of  its  sharpness,  and,  by  the  addition 
of  various  palliating  circumstances,  that  disturbing 
element  may  be  either  entirely  banished  or  so  insep- 
arably interwoven  with  these  softening  features,  that 
terror  is  almost  lost  in  desire. 

Sinewy  then,  ugliness  of  form,  from  its  exciting 
sensations  of  pain  of  a kind  incapable  of  being 
converted  by  imitation  into  pleasurable  emotions, 
cannot  in  itself  be  a fitting  subject  for  painting  as  a 
fine  art,  the  question  arises  whether  it  may  not  be 


156 


LAOCOON. 


employed  in  painting  as  in  poetry  as  an  ingredient 
for  strengthening  other  sensations. 

May  painting  make  use  of  deformity  in  the  attain- 
ment of  the  ridiculous  and  horrible? 

I will  not  venture  to  answer  this  question  abso- 
lutely in  the  negative.  Unquestionably,  harmless 
ugliness  can  be  ridiculous  in  painting  also,  especially 
when  united  with  an  affectation  of  grace  and  dignity. 
Equally  beyond  question  is  it  that  hurtful  ugliness 
excites  terror  in  a picture  as  well  as  in  nature,  and 
that  the  ridiculous  and  the  terrible,  in  themselves 
mixed  sensations,  acquire  through  imitation  an  added 
degree  of  fascination. 

But  I must  call  attention  to  the  fact  that  painting 
and  poetry  do  not  stand  upon  the  same  footing  in 
this  respect.  In  poetry,  as  I have  observed,  ugliness 
of  form  loses  its  disagreeable  effect  almost  entirely 
by  the  successive  enumeration  of  its  coexistent  parts. 
As  far  as  effect  is  concerned  it  almost  ceases  to  be 
ugliness,  and  can  thus  more  closely  combine  with 
other  appearances  to  produce  new  and  different 
impressions.  But  in  painting  ugliness  is  before  our 
eyes  in  all  its  strength,  and  affects  us  scarcely  less 
powerfully  than  in  nature  itself.  Harmless  ugliness 
cannot,  therefore,  long  remain  ridiculous.  The  dis- 
agreeable impression  gains  the  mastery,  and  what 
was  at  first  amusing  becomes  at  last  repulsive.  Nor 
is  the  case  different  with  hurtful  ugliness.  The 
element  of  terror  gradually  disappears,  leaving  the 
deformity  unchanging  and  unrelieved. 

Count  Caylus  was  therefore  right  in  omitting  the 


LAOCOON. 


1.57 


episode  of  Thersites  from  his  series  of  Homeric 
pictures.  But  are  we  justified  in  wishing  it  out 
of  Homer  ? I perceive  with  regret  that  this  is  done 
by  one  critic  whose  taste  is  otherwise  unerring.1  I 
postpone  further  discussion  of  the  subject  to  a future 
occasion. 

1 Klotzii  Epistolae  Homericae,  p.  33  et  scq. 


LAO  COON. 


I58 


XXV. 

The  second  distinction  mentioned  by  the  critic  just 
quoted,  between  disgust  and  other  disagreeable  emo- 
tions, appears  in  the  distaste  which  deformity  excites 
in  us. 

“ Other  disagreeable  passions,”  he  says,1  “may 
sometimes,  in  nature  as  well  as  in  art,  produce  grat- 
ification, because  they  never  arouse  pure  pain.  Their 
bitterness  is  always  mixed  with  satisfaction.  Our 
fear  is  seldom  devoid  of  hope ; terror  rouses  all  our 
powers  to  escape  the  danger ; anger  is  mixed  with  a 
desire  for  vengeance ; sadness,  with  the  pleasant 
recollection  of  former  happiness ; and  compassion 
is  inseparable  from  the  tender  sentiments  of  love 
and  good-will.  The  mind  is  at  liberty  to  dwell 
now  on  the  agreeable,  and  now  on  the  disagreeable 
side,  and  thus  to  obtain  a mingling  of  pleasure  and 
pain,  more  delightful  than  the  purest  pleasure.  Very 
little  study  of  ourselves  will  furnish  us  with  abun- 
dant instances.  Why  else  is  his  anger  dearer  to  an 
angry  man  and  his  sadness  to  a melancholy  one, 
than  all  the  cheerful  images  by  which  we  strive  to 
soothe  him?  Quite  different  is  the  case  with  dis- 
gust and  its  kindred  sensations.  Here  the  mind  is 

1 Klotzii  Epistolae  Homericae,  p.  103. 


LAOCOON. 


159 


conscious  of  no  perceptible  admixture  of  pleasure. 
A feeling  of  uneasiness  gains  the  mastery,  and  under 
no  imaginable  conditions  in  nature  or  art  would  the 
mind  fail  to  recoil  with  aversion  from  representa- 
tions of  this  nature.” 

Very  true ; but,  since  the  critic  acknowledges  the 
existence  of  other  sensations  nearly  akin  to  that  of 
disgust,  and  producing,  like  that,  nothing  but  pain, 
what  answers  more  nearly  to  this  description  than 
emotions  excited  by  the  sight  of  physical  deformity  ? 
These  are  not  only  kindred  to  that  of  disgust,  but 
they  resemble  it  in  being  destitute  of  all  admixture 
of  pleasure  in  art  as  well  as  in  nature.  Under  no 
imaginable  conditions,  therefore,  would  the  mind 
fail  to  recoil  with  aversion  from  such  representa- 
tions. 

This  aversion,  if  I have  analyzed  my  feelings  with 
sufficient  care,  is  altogether  of  the  nature  of  disgust. 
The  sensation  which  accompanies  the  sight  of  phys- 
ical deformity  is  disgust,  though  a low  degree  of  it. 
This,  indeed,  is  at  variance  with  another  remark  of 
our  critic,  according  to  which  only  our  more  occult 
senses  — those  of  taste,  smell,  and  touch  — are  capa- 
ble  of  receiving  impressions  of  disgust.  “ The  first 
two,”  he  says,  “from  an  excessive  sweetness,  and 
the  latter  from  an  extreme  softness  of  bodies  which 
offer  too  slight  resistance  to  the  fibres  coming  in 
contact  with  them.  Such  objects,  then,  become 
intolerable  to  the  sight,  but  solely  through  the  asso- 
ciation of  ideas,  because  we  remember  how  disagree- 
able they  were  to  our  sense  of  taste,  smell,  or  touch. 


i6o 


LAOCOON. 


For,  strictly  speaking,  there  are  no  objects  of  di?  • 
gust  to  the  eyes.”  I think,  however,  that  some 
might  be  mentioned.  A mole  on  the  face,  a harelip, 
a flattened  nose  with  prominent  nostrils,  are  deform- 
ities which  offend  neither  taste,  smell,  nor  touch. 
Yet  the  sight  of  them  excites  in  us  something  much 
more  nearly  resembling  disgust  than  we  feel  at  sight 
of  other  malformations,  such  as  a club-foot  or  a 
hump  on  the  back.  The  more  susceptible  the  tem- 
perament, the  more  distinctly  are  we  conscious,  when 
looking  at  such  objects,  of  those  motions  in  the 
body  which  precede  nausea.  That  these  motions 
soon  subside,  and  rarely  if  ever  result  in  actual 
sickness,  is  to  be  explained  by  the  fact  that  the  eye 
receives  in  and  with  the  objects  causing  them  such  a 
number  of  pleasing  images  that  the  disagreeable 
impressions  are  too  much  weakened  and  obscured 
to  exert  any  marked  influence  on  the  body.  The 
more  occult  senses  of  taste,  smell,  and  touch,  on 
the  contrary,  cannot  receive  other  impressions  when 
in  contact  with  the  repulsive  object.  The  element 
of  disgust  operates  in  full  force,  and  necessarily 
produces  much  more  violent  effects  upon  the  body. 

The  same  rules  hold  of  things  loathsome  as  of 
things  ugly,  in  respect  of  imitation.  Indeed,  since 
the  disagreeable  effect  of  the  former  is  the  more 
violent,  they  are  still  less  suitable  subjects  of  paint- 
ing or  poetry.  Only  because  the  effect  is  softened 
by  verbal  expression,  did  I venture  to  assert  that 
the  poet  might  employ  certain  loathsome  traits  as 
an  ingredient  in  such  mixed  sensations  as  can  with 


LAOCOON. 


161 


good  effect  be  strengthened  by  ihe  use  of  ugli- 
ness. 

The  ridiculous  may  be  heightened  by  an  element 
of  disgust ; representations  of  dignity  and  propriety 
likewise  become  ludicrous  when  brought  into  con- 
trast with  the  disgusting.  Examples  of  this  abound 
in  Aristophanes.  I am  reminded  of  the  weasel  that 
interrupted  the  worthy  Socrates  in  his  astronomical 
observations.1 

MA  O.  TtQcoTjv  8 8 ye  yvMfirjv  [xeyaX^v  dcpriQS&rj 
v-7t  uGxalapcQTov.  2lTP.  rivet  tqotiov  ; xureiTts  [ioi. 
MAO.  'Qtytovvrog  avrov  rrjg  aeXrjvrjg  rotg  odovg 
xoti  rag  Ttegityoyag,  ea  dvco  xeyrivorog 
drto  rrjg  OQoqrjg  vvxrcoQ  yaXearrjg  vtariyecev. 

JlTP.  tjGd’Tjv  yaXecorrj  xarayeaavri  £ coxQarovg . 

If  what  fell  into  the  open  mouth  had  not  been 
disgusting,  there  would  be  nothing  ludicrous  in  the 
story. 

An  amusing  instance  of  this  occurs  in  the  Hot- 
tentot story  of  Tquassouw  and  Knonmquaiha,  attrib- 
uted to  Lord  Chesterfield,  which  appeared  in  the 
“ Connoisseur,”  an  English  weekly,  full  of  wit  and 
humor.  The  filthiness  of  the  Hottentots  is  well 
known,  as  also  the  fact  of  their  regarding  as  beau- 
tiful and  holy  what  excites  our  disgust  and  aversion. 
The  pressed  gristle  of  a nose,  flaccid  breasts  descend- 

1 Nubes,  1 70-1 74.  Disciple.  But  he  was  lately  deprived  of 
a great  idea  by  a weasel.  Strepsiades.  In  what  way  ? tell  me. 
Disciple.  He  was  studying  the  courses  of  the  moon  and  her 
revolutions,  and,  while  gazing  upward  open-mouthed,  a weasel 
in  the  dark  dunged  upon  him  from  the  roof. 

11 


LAOCOON. 


162 

ing  to  the  navel,  the  whole  body  anointed  with  a 
varnish  of  goat’s  fat  and  soot,  melted  in  by  the  sun, 
hair  dripping  with  grease,  arms  and  legs  entwined 
with  fresh  entrails,  — imagine  all  this  the  object  of 
an  ardent,  respectful,  tender  love ; listen  to  expres- 
sions of  this  love  in  the  noble  language  of  sincerity 
and  admiration,  and  keep  from  laughing  if  you 
can.1 

The  disgusting  seems  to  admit  of  being  still  more 
closely  united  with  the  terrible.  What  we  call  the 
horrible  is  nothing  more  than  a mixture  of  the 
elements  of  terror  and  disgust.  Longinus2  takes 
offence  at  the  "Trjg  lx  iisv  givcov  piv^ai  qeov  (mucus 
flowing  from  the  nostrils)  in  Hesiod’s  picture  of 
Sorrow  ; 3 but  not,  I think,  so  much  on  account  of  the 
loathsomeness  of  the  trait,  as  from  its  being  simply 
loathsome  with  no  element  of  terror.  For  he  does  not 
seem  inclined  to  find  fault  with  the  iiaxgol  d’  6vv%ag 
%Mo£6Giv  vTtrfiav , the  long  nails  projecting  beyond  the 
fingers.  Long  nails  are  not  less  disgusting  than  a 
running  nose,  but  they  are  at  the  same  time  terrible. 
It  is  they  that  tear  the  cheeks  till  the  blood  runs  to 
the  ground : 

. . . I'A  8s  7tCCQ£l(X)V 

all jC  artslufisT  sga^e  . . . 

The  other  feature  is  simply  disgusting,  and  I should 
advise  Sorrow  to  cease  her  crying. 

1 See  Appendix,  note  51. 

2 HeplaYipovc,  T{irjpa  7).  p.  15  (edit.  T.  Fabri). 

8 Scut.  Hercul.  266. 


LAOCOON. 


163 


Read  Sophocles’  description  of  the  desert  cave  of 
his  wretched  Philoctetes.  There  are  no  provisions 
to  be  seen,  no  comforts  beyond  a trampled  litter  of 
dried  leaves,  an  unshapely  wooden  bowl,  and  a 
tinder-box.  These  constitute  the  whole  wealth  of 
the  sick,  forsaken  man.  How  does  the  poet  com- 
plete the  sad  and  frightful  picture  ? By  introducing 
the  element  of  disgust.  “ Ha ! ” Neoptolemus  draws 
back  of  a sudden,  “here  are  rags  drying  full  of 
blood  and  matter.”  1 


NE.  oqco  xsvrjv  oiyrjoiv  av&QcoTtcov  8iya. 

0/1.  ovft  evdov  oly.orf.oi6q  toil  ng  iQOcpri ; 

NE.  oiUTtii]  yt  (fvlldg  cog  tvavkiQovil  icp. 

0/1.  id  d’  all’  eQfjfJut,  you  8 tv  toN  vnooi&yov ; 

NE.  avzolgvlov  y tyncofia  qtavlovgyov  nvog 
ivyyi]\mx  dv8()6g,  you  nvotV  o^iov  id8e. 

0/1.  ytivov  16  HrjoavQiOfjia  or^aLVug  rods. 

NE.  iov,  iov'  you  1 avia  y alia  fidlTtezai 
Qayrj,  paQtiag  iov  voorjltiag  nlia. 

So  in  Homer,  Hector  dragged  on  the  ground,  his 
face  foul  with  dust,  his  hair  matted  with  blood, 

Squalentem  barbam  et  concretos  sanguine  crines, 

(as  Virgil  expresses  it2)  is  a disgusting  object,  but 
all  the  more  terrible  and  touching. 

Who  can  recall  the  punishment  of  Marsyas,  in 
Ovid,  without  a feeling  of  disgust?8 

1 Philoct.  31-39.  2 ^Tneid,  lib.  ii.  277. 

3 Metamorph.  vi.  387.  “The  skin  is  torn  from  the  upper 
limbs  of  the  shrieking  Marsyas,  till  he  is  nought  but  one  great 
wound : thick  blood  oozes  on  every  side ; the  bared  sinews  aro 


164 


LAOCOON. 


Clamanti  cutis  est  summos  direpta  per  artus  : 

Nec  quidquam,  nisi  vulnus  erat ; cruor  undique  manat  t 
Detectique  patent  nervi : trepidaeque  sine  ulla 
Pelle  micant  venae  : salientia  viscera  possis, 

Et  perlucentes  numerare  in  pectore  fibras. 

But  the  loathsome  details  are  here  appropriate. 
They  make  the  terrible  horrible,  which  in  fiction 
is  far  from  displeasing  to  us ; since,  even  in  nature, 
where  our  compassion  is  enlisted,  things  horrible  are 
not  wholly  devoid  of  charm. 

I do  not  wish  to  multiply  examples,  but  this  one 
thing  I must  further  observe.  There  is  one  form 
of  the  horrible,  the  road  to  which  lies  almost  exclu- 
sively through  the  disgusting,  and  that  is  the  horror 
of  famine.  Even  in  ordinary  life  we  can  convey  no 
idea  of  extreme  hunger  save  by  enumerating  all  the 
innutritious,  unwholesome,  and  particularly  disgust- 
ing things  with  which  the  stomach  would  fain  appease 
its  cravings.  Since  imitation  can  excite  nothing  of 
the  feeling  of  actual  hunger,  it  has  recourse  to 
another  disagreeable  sensation  which,  in  cases  of 
extreme  hunger,  is  felt  to  be  a lesser  evil.  We  may 
thus  infer  how  intense  that  other  suffering  must  be 
which  makes  the  present  discomfort  in  comparison 
of  small  account. 

Ovid  says  of  the  Oread  whom  Ceres  sent  to  meet 
Famine,1  — 

visible  ; and  the  palpitating  veins  quiver,  stripped  of  the  cov- 
ering of  skin ; you  can  count  the  protruding  entrails,  and  the 
muscles  shining  in  the  breast. 

1 Metamorph.  lib.  viii.  809.  “Seeing  Famine  afar  off, 
she  delivers  the  message  of  the  goddesv  And  after  a little 


LAOCOON. 


16$ 


Ilanc  (Famem)  procul  ut  vidit.  . . . 

. . . refert  mandata  deae  ; paulumque  morata 
Quanquam  aberat  longe,  quanquam  modo  venerat  illuc, 
Visa  tamen  sensisse  famem  . . . 

This  is  an  unnatural  exaggeration.  The  sight  of  a 
hungry  person,  even  of  Hunger  herself,  has  no  such 
power  of  contagion.  Compassion  and  horror  and 
loathing  may  be  aroused,  but  not  hunger.  Ovid  has 
not  been  sparing  of  this  element  of  the  horrible  in 
the  picture  of  Famine ; while  both  he  and  Callima- 
chus,1 in  their  description  of  Erisichthon’s  starva- 
tion, have  laid  chief  emphasis  upon  the  loathsome 
traits.  After  Erisichthon  has  devoured  every  thing, 
not  sparing  even  the  sacrificial  cow,  which  his  mother 
had  been  fattening  for  Vesta,  Callimachus  makes  him 
fall  on  horses  and  cats,  and  beg  in  the  streets  for 
crumbs  and  filthy  refuse  from  other  men’s  tables. 

Kai  xav  fiwv  scpayev,  xav  'Eaxla  sxQsys  [xdxrjQ, 

Kai  xov  de&XoqoQbv  xal  xov  7to\z\ir^ov  Innov , 

Kai  xav  ailovgov,  xdv  exQsps  ftriQia  [uxxa° — 

Kai  rod’’  6 x bo  fiaGdijog  hi  XQiodoiai  xa&tjcxo 
aixi^cov  axolmg  xs,  xai  sxfiola  Ivpaza  daixog. 

Ovid  represents  him  finally  as  biting  into  his  own 
flesh,  that  his  body  might  thus  furnish  nourishment 
for  itself. 

Vis  tamen  ilia  mali  postquam  consumserat  omnem 
Materiam  . . . 

Ipse  suos  artus  lacero  divellere  morsu 
Coepit  • et  infelix  minuendo  corpus  alebat. 

while,  although  she  was  yet  at  a distance  and  was  but  approach 
ing,  yet  the  mere  sight  produced  hunger.” 

1 Hym.  in  Cererem,  111-116. 


LAOCOON. 


1 66 

The  hideous  harpies  were  made  loathsome  and  ob- 
scene in  order  that  the  hunger  occasioned  by  their 
carrying  off  of  the  food  might  be  the  more  horrible. 
Hear  the  complaints  of  Phineus  in  Apollonius:1  — 

z vz&ov  8 * rjv  ugct  8r/  noz  tdgzvog  d[i[u  Xithogi, 

Ttvu  zo8t  [Avdalsov  zs  xcd  ov  zhjzov  psvog  odfxrjg. 
ou  y. s zig  ovds  {jllvvv&o.  figozeov  uvayoizo  Ttsldofiag, 
ov8>  ei  oi  dddfiavzog  tkr[ia\iivov  xsag  tit]. 
aXXd  [as  Ttixgrj  8qzd  xe  docfcog  tmoyti  dvdyxtj 
[ii[AV£iv,  xal  [Ai'^vovza  xctxrj  tv  yaaztgi  d'SG'&au 

I would  gladly  excuse  in  this  way,  if  I could,  Vir- 
gil’s disgusting  introduction  of  the  harpies.  They, 
however,  instead  of  occasioning  an  actual  present 
hunger,  only  prophesy  an  inward  craving ; and  this 
prophecy,  moreover,  is  resolved  finally  into  a mere 
play  upon  words. 

Dante  not  only  prepares  us  for  the  starvation  of 
Ugolino  by  a most  loathsome,  horrible  description 
of  him  together  with  his  former  persecutor  in  hell, 
but  the  slow  starvation  itself  is  not  free  from  dis- 
gusting features,  as  where  the  sons  offer  themselves 
as  food  for  the  father.  I give  in  a note  a passage 
from  a play  by  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  which  might 
have  served  me  in  the  stead  of  all  other  examples, 
were  it  not  somewhat  too  highly  drawn.2 

1 Argonaut,  lib.  ii.  228-233.  “ Scarcely  have  they  left  us  any 

food  that  smells  not  mouldy,  and  the  stench  is  unendurable. 
No  one  for  a time  could  bear  the  foul  food,  though  his  stom- 
ach were  beaten  of  adamant.  But  bitter  necessity  compels 
me  to  bethink  me  of  the  meal,  and,  so  remembering,  put  it 
into  my  wretched  belly,” 

2 See  Appendix,  note  52. 


LAOCOON. 


167 


I come  now  to  objects  of  disgust  in  painting. 
Even  could  we  prove  that  there  are  no  objects 
directly  disgusting  to  the  eye,  which  painting  as  a 
fine  art  would  naturally  avoid,  it  would  still  be 
obliged  to  refrain  from  loathsome  objects  in  general, 
because  they  become  through  the  association  of  ideas 
disgusting  also  to  the  sense  of  sight.  Pordenone,  in 
a picture  of  the  entombment,  makes  one  of  the  by- 
standers hold  his  nose.  Richardson 1 objects  to  this 
on  the  ground  that  Christ  had  not  been  long  enough 
dead  for  corruption  to  set  in.  In  the  raising  of 
Lazarus,  however,  he  would  allow  the  painter  to 
represent  some  of  the  lookers-on  in  that  attitude, 
because  the  narrative  expressly  states  that  the  body 
was  already  offensive.  But  I consider  the  repre- 
sentation in  both  cases  as  insufferable,  for  not  only 
the  actual  smell,  but  the  very  idea  of  it  is  nauseous. 
We  shun  bad-smelling  places  even  when  we  have  a 
cold  in  the  head.  But  painting  does  not  employ 
loathsomeness  for  its  own  sake,  but,  like  poetry,  to 
give  emphasis  to  the  ludicrous  and  the  terrible.  At 
its  peril ! What  I have  already  said  of  ugliness  in 
this  connection  applies  with  greater  force  to  loath- 
someness. This  also  loses  much  less  of  its  effect 
in  a visible  representation  than  in  a description 
addressed  to  the  ear,  and  can  therefore  unite  less 
closely  with  the  elements  of  the  ludicrous  and  ter- 
rible in  painting  than  in  poetry.  As  soon  as  the 
surprise  passes  and  the  first  curious  glance  is  sat- 
isfied, the  elements  separate  and  loathsomeness 
appears  in  all  its  crudity. 

1 Richardson  de  la  Peinture,  vol.  i.  p.  74. 


LAOCOON. 


1 68 


XXVI. 

Winkelmann’s  “History  of  Ancient  Art”  has  ap- 
peared, and  I cannot  venture  a step  further  until  I 
have  read  it.  Criticism  based  solely  upon  general 
principles  may  lead  to  conceits  which  sooner  or 
later  we  find  to  our  shame  refuted  in  works  on 
art. 

The  ancients  well  understood  the  connection  be- 
tween painting  and  poetry,  and  are  sure  not  to  have 
drawn  the  two  arts  more  closely  together  than  the 
good  of  both  would  warrant.  What  their  artists 
have  done  will  teach  me  what  artists  in  general 
should  do ; and  where  such  a man  precedes  with  the 
torch  of  history,  speculation  may  boldly  follow. 

We  are  apt  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  an  impor- 
tant work  before  seriously  setting  ourselves  to  read 
it.  My  chief  curiosity  was  to  know  the  author’s 
opinion  of  the  Laocoon ; not  of  its  merit  as  a work 
of  art,  for  that  he  had  already  given,  but  merely  of 
its  antiquity.  Would  he  agree  with  those  who  think 
that  Virgil  had  the  group  before  him,  or  with  those 
who  suppose  the  sculptors  to  have  followed  the 
poet? 

I am  pleased  to  find  that  he  says  nothing  of 


LAOCOON.  I69 

imitation  on  either  side.  What  need  is  there,  indeed, 
of  supposing  imitation  ? 

Very  possibly  the  resemblances  which  I have  been 
considering  between  the  poetic  picture  and  the  mar- 
ble group  were  not  intentional  but  accidental,  and, 
so  far  from  one  having  served  as  a model  for  the 
other,  the  two  may  not  even  have  had  a common 
model.  Had  he,  however,  been  misled  by  an  appear- 
ance of  imitation,  he  must  have  declared  in  favor  of 
those  who  make  Virgil  the  imitator.  For  he  sup- 
poses the  Laocoon  to  date  from  the  period  when 
Greek  art  was  in  its  perfection : to  be,  therefore,  of 
the  time  of  Alexander  the  Great. 

“ Kind  fortune,”  he  says,1  “ watching  over  the 
arts  even  in  their  extinction,  has  preserved  for  the 
admiration  of  the  world  a work  of  this  period  of 
art,  which  proves  the  truth  of  what  history  tells 
concerning  the  glory  of  the  many  lost  masterpieces. 
The  Laocoon  with  his  two  sons,  the  work  of  Agesan- 
der,  Apollodorus,2  and  Athenodorus,  of  Rhodes, 
dates  in  all  probability  from  this  period,  although 
we  cannot  determine  the  exact  time,  nor  give,  as 
some  have  done,  the  Olympiad  in  which  these  artists 
flourished.” 

In  a note  he  adds  : “ Pliny  says  not  a word  with 

1 Geschichte  der  Kunst,  p.  347. 

2 Not  Apollodorus,  but  Polydorus.  Pliny  is  the  only  one 
who  mentions  these  artists,  and  I am  not  aware  that  the  manu- 
scripts differ  in  the  writing  of  the  name.  Had  such  been  the 
case,  Hardouin  would  certainly  have  noticed  it.  All  the  older 
editions  also  read  Polydorus.  Winkelmann  must  therefore 
Have  merely  made  a slight  error  in  transcribing 


jyo 


LAOCOON. 


regai  d to  the  time  when  Agesander  and  his  assist- 
ants lived.  But  Maffei,  in  his  explanation  of  the 
ancient  statues,  professes  to  know  that  these  artists 
flourished  in  the  eighty-eighth  Olympiad  ; and  others, 
like  Richardson,  have  maintained  the  same  on  his 
authority.  He  must,  I think,  have  mistaken  an 
Athenodorus,  a pupil  of  Polycletus,  for  one  of  our 
artists.  Polycletus  flourished  in  the  eighty-seventh 
Olympiad,  and  his  supposed  pupil  was  therefore 
referred  to  the  Olympiad  following.  Maffei  can 
have  no  other  grounds  for  his  opinion.” 

Certainly  he  can  have  no  other.  But  why  does 
Winkelmann  content  himself  with  the  mere  mention 
of  this  supposed  argument  of  Maffei?  Does  it 
refute  itself?  Not  altogether.  For  although  not 
otherwise  supported,  it  yet  carries  with  it  a certain 
degree  of  probability  unless  we  can  prove  that  Athen- 
odorus, the  pupil  of  Polycletus,  and  Athenodorus, 
the  assistant  of  Agesander  and  Polydorus,  could 
not  possibly  have  been  one  and  the  same  per- 
son. Happily  this  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  the 
two  were  natives  of  different  countries.  We  have 
the  express  testimony  of  Pausanias 1 that  the  first 
Athenodorus  was  from  Clitor  in  Arcadia,  while  the 
second,  on  the  authority  of  Pliny,  was  born  at 
Rhodes. 

Winkelmann  can  have  had  no  object  in  refraining 
from  a direct  refutation  of  Maffei  by  the  statement 
of  this  circumstance.  Probably  the  arguments  which 

1 ’AOrjvodCjpog  de  nal  Aauiag  . . . ovtoi  de  ’AfKtideg  daiv  ii c 
KAtiropof.  Phoc  cap.  ix.  p 819  (edit.  Kuhn). 


LAOCOON. 


171 

his  undoubted  critical  knowledge  derived  from  the 
skill  of  the  workmanship  seemed  to  him  of  such 
great  weight,  that  he  deemed  any  slight  probability 
which  Maffei’s  opinion  might  have  on  its  side  a 
matter  of  no  importance.  He  doubtless  recog- 
nized in  the  Laocoon  too  many  of  those  argutice 1 
(traits  of  animation)  peculiar  to  Lysippus,  to  sup- 
pose it  to  be  of  earlier  date  than  that  master  who 
was  the  first  to  enrich  art  with  this  semblance  of 
fife. 

But,  granting  the  fact  to  be  proved  that  the  Laoc- 
oon  cannot  be  older  than  Lysippus,  have  we  thereby 
proved  that  it  must  be  contemporaneous  with  him  or 
nearly  so  ? May  it  not  be  a work  of  much  later 
date  ? Passing  in  review  those  periods  previous 
to  the  rise  of  the  Roman  monarchy,  when  art  in 
Greece  alternately  rose  and  sank,  why,  I ask,  might 
not  Laocoon  have  been  the  happy  fruit  of  that 
emulation  which  the  extravagant  luxury  of  the 
first  emperors  must  have  kindled  among  artists  ? 
Why  might  not  Agesander  and  his  assistants  have 
oeen  the  contemporaries  of  Strongylion,  Arcesilaus, 
Pasiteles,  Posidonius,  or  Diogenes  ? Were  not  some 
of  the  works  of  those  masters  counted  among  the 
greatest  treasures  ever  produced  by  art  ? And 
»f  undoubted  works  from  the  hand  of  these  men 
were  still  in  existence,  but  the  time  in  which  they 
iived  was  unknown  and  left  to  be  determined  by  the 
style  of  their  art,  would  not  some  inspiration  from 
neaven  be  needed  to  prevent  the  critic  from  refer- 

1 Plinius,  lib.  xxxiv.  sect.  19. 


l?2 


LAOCOON. 


ring  them  to  that  period  which  to  Winkelmann 
seemed  the  only  one  worthy  of  producing  the 
Laocoon  ? 

Pliny,  it  is  true,  does  not  expressly  mention  the 
time  when  the  sculptors  of  the  Laocoon  lived.  But 
were  I to  conclude  from  a study  of  the  whole  pas- 
sage whether  he  would  have  them  reckoned  among 
the  old  or  the  new  artists,  I confess  the  probability 
seems  to  me  in  favor  of  the  latter  inference.  Let 
the  reader  judge. 

After  speaking  at  some  length  of  the  oldest  and 
greatest  masters  of  sculpture, — -Phidias,  Praxiteles, 
and  Scopas,  — and  then  giving,  without  chronological 
order,  the  names  of  the  rest,  especially  of  those  who 
were  represented  in  Rome  by  any  of  their  works 
Pliny  proceeds  as  follows:1  — 

1 Lib.  xxxvi.  sect.  4.  “ Nor  are  there  many  of  great  repute 

the  number  of  artists  engaged  on  celebrated  works  prevent- 
ing the  distinction  of  individuals  ; since  no  one  could  have 
all  the  credit,  nor  could  the  names  of  many  be  rehearsed  at 
once  : as  in  the  Laocoon,  which  is  in  the  palace  of  the  emperor 
Titus,  a work  surpassing  all  the  results  of  painting  or  statuary. 
From  one  stone  he  and  his  sons  and  the  wondrous  coils  of  the 
serpents  were  sculptured  by  consummate  artists,  working  in  con- 
cert : Agesander,  Polydorus,  and  Athenodorus,  all  of  Rhodes. 
In  like  manner  Craterus  with  Pythodorus,  Polydectes  wdth 
Ilermolaus,  another  Pythodorus  with  Artemon,  and  Aphro- 
disius  of  Tralles  by  himself,  filled  the  palaces  of  the  Caesars 
on  the  Palatine  with  admirable  statuary.  Diogenes,  the  Athe- 
nian, decorated  the  Pantheon  of  Agrippa,  and  the  Caryatides  on 
the  columns  of  that  temple  rank  among  the  choicest  works,  as 
do  also  the  statues  on  the  pediment,  though  these,  from  the 
height  of  their  position,  are  less  celebrated.” 


LAOCOON. 


173 


Nec  multo  plurium  fama  est,  quorundam  claritati  in  ( peribus 
tximiis  obstante  numero  artificum,  quoniara  nec  unus  occupat 
gloriam,  nec  plures  pariter  nuncupari  possunt,  sicut  in  Laoco- 
onte,  qui  est  in  Titi  Imperatoris  domo,  opus  omnibus  et 
picturae  et  statuariae  artis  praeponendum.  Ex  uno  lapide  eum 
et  liberos  draconumque  mirabiles  nexus  de  consilii  sententia 
fecere  summi  artifices,  Agesander  et  Polydoius  et  Athenodo- 
rus  Rhodii.  Similiter  Palatinas  domus  Caesarum  replevere 
probatissimis  signis  Craterus  cum  Pythodoro,  Polydectes  cum 
Hermolao,  Pythodorus  alius  cum  Artemone,  et  singularis  Aph- 
rodisius  Trallianus.  Agrippae  Pantheum  decoravit  Diogenes 
Atheniensis ; et  Caryatides  in  columnis  templi  ejus  probantur 
inter  pauca  operum  : sicut  in  fastigio  posita  signa,  sed  propter 
altitudinem  loci  minus  celebrata. 

Of  ail  the  artists  mentioned  in  this  passage,  Diog- 
enes of  Athens  is  the  one  whose  date  is  fixed  with 
the  greatest  precision.  He  adorned  the  Pantheon 
of  Agrippa,  and  therefore  lived  under  Augustus. 
But  a close  examination  of  Pliny’s  words  will,  I 
think,  determine  with  equal  certainty  the  date  of 
Craterus  and  Pythodorus,  Polydectes  and  Hermo- 
laus,  the  second  Pythodorus  and  Artemon,  as  also 
of  Aphrodisius  of  Tralles.  He  says  of  them  : “ Pal- 
atinas domus  Caesarum  replevere  probatissimis  sig- 
nis,” Can  this  mean  only  that  the  palaces  were 
filled  with  admirable  works  by  these  artists,  which 
the  emperors  had  collected  from  various  places  and 
brought  to  their  dwellings  in  Rome?  Surely  not. 
The  sculptors  must  have  executed  their  works  ex- 
pressly for  the  imperial  palaces,  and  must,  therefore, 
have  lived  at  the  time  of  these  emperors.  That 
they  were  artists  of  comparatively  late  date,  who 
worked  only  in  Italy,  is  plain  from  our  finding  no 


174 


LAOCOON. 


mention  of  them  elsewhere.  Had  they  worked  in 
Greece  at  an  earlier  day,  Pausanias  would  have 
seen  some  work  of  theirs  and  recorded  it.  He  men- 
tions, indeed,  a Pythodorus,1  but  Hardouin  is  wrong 
in  supposing  him  to  be  the  same  referred  to  by 
Pliny.  For  Pausanias  calls  the  statue  of  Juno  at 
Coronaea,  in  Bceotia,  the  work  of  the  former,  ayalfxa 
aQialov  (an  ancient  idol),  a term  which  he  applies 
only  to  the  works  of  those  artists  who  lived  in  the 
first  rude  days  of  art,  long  before  Phidias  and  Prax- 
iteles. With  such  works  the  emperors  would  cer- 
tainly not  have  adorned  their  palaces.  Of  still  less 
value  is  another  suggestion  of  Hardouin,  that  Arte- 
mon  may  be  the  painter  of  the  same  name  elsewhere 
mentioned  by  Pliny.  Identity  of  name  is  a slight 
argument,  and  by  no  means  authorizes  us  to  do 
violence  to  the  natural  interpretation  of  an  uncor- 
rupted passage. 

If  it  be  proved  beyond  a doubt  that  Craterus  and 
Pythodorus,  Polydectes  and  Hermolaus,  with  the 
rest,  lived  at  the  time  of  the  emperors  whose  palaces 
they  adorned  with  their  admirable  works,  then  I 
think  we  can  assign  no  other  date  to  those  artists, 
the  sculptors  of  the  Laocoon,  whose  names  Pliny 
connects  with  these  by  the  word  similiter . For  if 
Agesander,  Polydorus,  and  Athenodorus  were  really 
such  old  masters  as  Winkelmann  supposes,  it  would 
be  the  height  of  impropriety  for  an  author,  who 
makes  great  account  of  precision  of  expression,  to 


1 Boeotic.  cap.  xxxiv.  p.  778  (edit.  Kuhn). 


LAOCOON.  175 

leap  from  them  to  the  most  modern  artists,  merely 
with  the  words  “ in  like  manner.”  - 

But  it  may  be  urged  that  this  similiter  has  no 
reference  to  a common  date,  but  to  some  other 
circumstance  common  to  all  these  masters,  who  yet 
in  age  were  widely  different.  Pliny,  it  may  be  said, 
is  speaking  of  artists  who  had  worked  in  partnership, 
and  on  this  account  had  not  obtained  the  fame  they 
merited.  The  names  of  all  had  been  left  in  neglect, 
because  no  one  artist  could  appropriate  the  honor  of 
the  common  work,  and  to  mention  the  names  of  all 
the  participators  would  require  too  much  time  (quo- 
niam  nec  unus  occupat  gloriam,  nec  plures  pariter 
nuncupari  possunt).  This  had  been  the  fate  of  the 
sculptors  of  the  Laocoon,  as  well  as  of  the  many 
other  masters  whom  the  emperors  had  employed  in 
the  decoration  of  their  palaces. 

But,  granting  all  this,  the  probabilities  are  still  in 
favor  of  the  supposition  that  Pliny  meant  to  refer 
only  to  the  later  artists  whose  labors  had  been  in 
common.  If  he  had  meant  to  include  older  ones, 
why  confine  himself  to  the  sculptors  of  the  Laocoon  ? 

Why  not  mention  others,  as  Onatas  and  Calliteles, 
Timocles  and  Timarchides,  or  the  sons  of  this  Timar- 
chides,  who  together  had  made  a statue  of  Jupiter  at 
Rome?1  Winkelmann  himself  says  that  a long  list 
might  be  made  of  older  works  which  had  more  than 
one  father.2  And  would  Pliny  have  thought  but  of 
the  single  example  of  Agesander,  Polydoais,  and 

1 Plinius,  lib.  xxxvi.  sect.  4,  p.  730. 

2 Geschichte  der  Kunst,  pari  ii.  p.  331. 


176 


LAOCOON. 


Athenodorus,  if  he  had  not  meant  to  confine  himself 
strictly  to  the  more  modern  masters  ? 

If  ever  a conjecture  gained  in  probability  from  the 
number  and  magnitude  of  the  difficulties  solved  by  it, 
this  one,  that  the  sculptors  of  the  Laocoon  flourished 
under  the  first  emperors,  has  that  advantage  in  a high 
degree.  For  had  they  lived  and  worked  in  Greece  at 
the  time  which  Winkelmann  assigns  to  them,  had  the 
Laocoon  itself  existed  earlier  in  Greece,  then  the 
utter  silence  of  the  Greeks  with  regard  to  such  a 
work,  “ surpassing  all  the  results  of  painting  or  statu- 
uary  ” (opere  omnibus  et  picturae  et  statuarias  artis 
praeponendo),  is  most  surprising.  It  is  hard  to  believe 
that  such  great  masters  should  have  created  nothing 
else,  or  that  the  rest  of  their  works  should  have  been, 
equally  with  the  Laocoon,  unknown  to  Pausanias. 
In  Rome,  on  the  contrary,  the  greatest  masterpiece 
might  have  remained  long  concealed.  If  the  Lao- 
coon had  been  finished  as  early  as  the  time  of  Augus- 
tus, there  would  be  nothing  surprising  in  Pliny’s  being 
the  first,  and,  indeed,  the  last,  to  mention  it.  For 
remember  what  he  tells1  of  a Venus  by  Scopas, 
which  stood  in  the  temple  of  Mars  at  Rome : 

. . . “quemcunque  alium  locum  nobilitatura.  Romaequidem 
magnitudo  operum  earn  obliterat,  ac  magni  officiorum  negotio- 
rumque  acervi  omnesa  contemplatione  talium  abducu.rt : quo- 
niam  otiosorum  et  in  magno  loci  silentio  apta  admiratio  tabs  est. ” 

1 Plinius,  xxxvi.  sect.  4.  . . . “which  would  make  the  glory 

of  any  other  place.  But  at  Rome  the  greatness  of  other  works 
overshadows  it,  and  the  great  press  of  business  and  engage- 
ments turns  the  crowd  from  the  contemplation  of  such  things ; 
for  the  admiration  of  works  of  art  belongs  to  those  who  have 
leisure  and  great  quiet.” 


LAOCOON. 


177 


Those  who  would  fain  see  in  the  group  an  imita- 
tion of  Virgil’s  Laocoon  will  readily  catch  at  what  I 
have  been  saying,  nor  will  they  be  displeased  at 
another  conjecture  which  just  occurs  to  me.  Why 
should  not  Asinius  Pollio,  they  may  think,  have  been 
the  patron  who  had  Virgil’s  Laocoon  put  into  marble 
by  Greek  artists  ? Pollio  was  a particular  friend  of 
the  poet,  survived  him,  and  appears  to  have  written 
an  original  work  on  the  ^Lneid.  For  whence  but 
from  such  a work  could  the  various  comments  have 
been  drawn  which  Servius  quotes  from  that  author  ? 1 
Pollio  was,  moreover,  a lover  of  art  and  a connois- 
seur, possessed  a valuable  collection  of  the  best 
of  the  old  masterpieces,  ordered  new  works  from 
the  artists  of  his  day,  and  showed  in  his  choice  a 
taste  quite  likely  to  be  pleased  by  so  daring  a piece 
as  the  Laocoon,2  “ ut  fuit  acris  vehementiae,  sic  quo- 
que  spectari  monumenta  sua  voluit.” 

Since,  however,  the  cabinet  of  Pollio  in  Pliny’s  day, 
when  the  Laocoon  was  standing  in  the  palace  of 
Titus,  seems  to  have  existed  entire  in  a separate 
building,  this  supposition  again  loses  something  of 
its  probability.  Why  might  not  Titus  himself  have 
done  what  we  are  trying  to  ascribe  to  Pollio  ? 

1 See  Appendix,  note  53.  2 Plinius,  xxxvi.  sect.  4. 


IS 


LAOLOON. 


1 78 


XXVII. 

A little  item  first  brought  to  my  notice  by  Win- 
kelmann  himself  confirms  me  in  my  opinion  that  the 
sculptors  of  the  Laocoon  lived  at  the  time  of  the 
emperors,  or  at  least  could  not  date  from  so  early  a 
period  as  he  assigns  them.  It  is  this  : 1 “In  Nettuno, 
the  ancient  Antium,  Cardinal  Alexander  Albani  dis- 
covered in  1717  in  a deep  vault,  which  lay  buried 
under  the  sea,  a vase  of  the  grayish  black  marble 
now  called  bigio , wherein  the  Laocoon  was  inlaid. 
Upon  this  vase  is  the  following  inscription:  — 

A0ANOA&POZ  APHZANAPOT 
POAIOZ  EIIOIHZE. 

“ Athanadorus  of  Rhodes,  son  of  Agesander,  made 
it.”  We  learn  from  this  inscription  that  father  and 
son  worked  on  the  Laocoon  ; and  probably  Apollodo- 
rus  (Polydorus)  was  also  a son  of  Agesander,  for  this 
Athanodorus  can  be  no  other  than  the  one  mentioned 
by  Pliny.  The  inscription  also  proves  that  more 
than  three  works  of  art  have  been  found  — the  num- 
ber stated  by  Pliny — on  which  the  artists  have  set 
the  word  “made,”  in  definite  past  time,  eTroirjas,  fecit 

1 Geschichte  der  Kunst,  part  ii.  p.  347. 


LAOCOON.  1/9 

Other  artists,  he  says,  from  modesty,  made  use  of 
indefinite  time,  “ was  making,”  moUi , faciebat. 

Few  will  contradict  Winkelmann  in  his  conclusion 
that  the  Athanodorus  of  this  inscription  can  be  no 
other  than  the  Athenodorus  whom  Pliny  mentions  as 
among  the  sculptors  of  the  Laocoon.  Athanodorus 
and  Athenodorus  are  entirely  synonymous ; for  the 
Rhodians  used  the  Doric  dialect.  But  the  other  con- 
clusions which  he  draws  from  the  inscription  require 
further  comment. 

The  first,  that  Athenodorus  was  a son  of  Agesan- 
der,  may  pass.  It  is  highly  probable,  though  by  no 
means  certain.  Some  of  the  old  artists,  we  know, 
called  themselves  after  their  teachers  instead  of  tak- 
ing their  fathers’  names.  What  Pliny  says  of  the 
brothers  Apollonius  and  Tauriscus  cannot  well  be 
explained  in  any  other  way.1 

But  shall  we  say  that  this  inscription  contradicts 
the  statement  of  Pliny  that  there  were  only  three 
works  of  art  to  which  their  masters  had  set  their 
names  in  definite  past  time  (t7toirjas  instead  of  inoUi)  ? 
This  inscription ! What  need  of  this  to  teach  us 
what  we  might  have  learned  long  ago  from  a multi- 
tude of  others  ? On  the  statue  of  Germanicus  was 
there  not  the  inscription  Kleo^'vrjg  — ETtoitjas,  Cleom- 
enes  made  ? on  the  so-called  Apotheosis  of  Homer, 
AqiiloLog  ETtOLrjas,  Archelaus  made  ? on  the  well-known 
vase  at  Gaeta,  JZaAjtioav  inolr]6^  Salpion  made  ? nor 
are  other  instances  wanting.2 


1 Lib.  xxxvi.  sect.  4. 


2 See  Appendix,  note  54. 


i8o 


LAOCOON. 


Winkelmann  may  answer:  “No  one  knows  that 
better  than  I.  So  much  the  worse  for  Pliny.  His 
statement  has  been  so  much  the  oftener  contradicted, 
and  is  so  much  the  more  surely  refuted.” 

By  no  means.  How  if  Winkelmann  has  made 
Pliny  say  more  than  he  meant  to  say  ? How  if  these 
examples  contradict,  not  Pliny’s  statement,  but  only 
something  which  Winkelmann  supposes  him  to  have 
stated?  And  this  is  actually  the  case.  I must 
quote  the  whole  passage.  Pliny,  in  the  dedication 
of  his  work  to  Titus,  speaks  with  the  modesty  of  a 
man  who  knows  better  than  any  one  else  how  far 
what  he  has  accomplished  falls  short  of  perfection. 
He  finds  a noteworthy  example  of  such  modesty 
among  the  Greeks,  on  the  ambitious  and  boastful 
titles  of  whose  books  (inscriptiones,  propter  quas 
vadimonium  deseri  possit)  he  dwells  at  some  length, 
and  then  says  : 1 

1 Prefatio  Edit.  Sillig.  “Lest  I should  seem  to  find  too 
much  fault  with  the  Greeks,  I would  be  classed  with  those 
founders  of  the  art  of  painting  and  sculpture,  recorded  in 
these  little  volumes,  whose  works,  although  complete  and 
such  as  cannot  be  sufficiently  admired,  yet  bear  a suspended 
title,  as  Apelles  or  Polycletus  ‘was  making’;  as  if  the  work 
were  always  only  begun  and  still  incomplete,  so  that  the 
artist  might  appeal  from  criticism  as  if  himself  desirous  of 
improving,  had  he  not  been  interrupted.  Wherefore  from 
modesty  they  inscribed  every  work  as  if  it  had  been  their  last, 
and  in  hand  at  their  death.  I think  there  are  but  three  with 
the  inscription,  ‘ He  made  it,’  and  these  I shall  speak  of  in 
their  place.  From  this  it  appeared  that  the  artists  felt  fully 
satisfied  with  their  work,  and  these  excited  the  envy  of  all.” 


LAOCOON. 


181 


Et  ne  in  totura  videar  Grascos  insectari,  ex  illis  nos  velim 
intelligi  pingendi  fingendique  conditoribus,  quos  in  libellis  his 
invenies,  absoluta  opera,  et  ilia  quoque  quas  mirando  non 
satiamur,  pendenti  titulo  inscripsisse  : ut  APELLES  FACIE- 
BAT,  aut  POLYCLETUS:  tanquam  inchoata  semper  arte 
et  imperfecta:  ut  contra  judiciorum  varietates  superesset 
artifici  regressus  ad  veniam,  velut  emendaturo  quidquid  desi- 
deraretur,  si  non  esset  interceptus.  Quare  plenum  verecundiae 
illud  est,  quod  omnia  opera  tanquam  novissima  inscripsere,  et 
tanquam  singulis  fato  adempti.  Tria  non  amplius,  ut  opinor, 
absolute  traduntur  inscripta,  ILLE  FECIT,  quae  suis  locis 
reddam : quo  apparuit,  summam  artis  securitatem  auctori 
placuisse,  et  ob  id  magna  invidia  fuere  omnia  ea. 

I desire  to  call  particular  attention  to  the  words 
of  Pliny,  “pingendi  fingendique  conditoribus”  (the 
creators  of  the  imitative  arts).  Pliny  does  not  say 
that  it  was  the  habit  of  all  artists  of  every  date  to 
affix  their  names  to  their  works  in  indefinite  past 
time.  He  says  explicitly  that  only  the  first  of  the 
old  masters — -those  creators  of  the  imitative  arts, 
Apelles,  Polycletus,  and  their  contemporaries  — pos- 
sessed this  wise  modesty,  and,  by  his  mention  of 
these  alone,  he  gives  plainly  to  be  understood,  though 
he  does  not  actually  say  it  in  words,  that  their  succes- 
sors, particularly  those  of  a late  date,  expressed 
themselves  with  greater  assurance. 

With  this  interpretation,  which  is  the  only  true 
one,  we  may  fully  accept  the  inscription  from  the 
hand  of  one  of  the  three  sculptors  of  the  Laocoon 
without  impugning  the  truth  of  what  Pliny  says, 
that  but  three  works  existed  whereon  their  creators 
had  cut  the  inscription  in  the  finished  past  time ; 
only  three,  that  is,  among  all  the  older  works,  of  the 


1 82 


LAOCOON. 


time  of  Apelles,  Polycletus,  Nicias,  and  Lysippus. 
But  then  we  cannot  accept  the  conclusion  that  Athen- 
odorus  and  his  assistants  were  contemporaries  of 
Apelles  and  Lysippus,  as  Winkelmann  would  make 
them.  We  should  reason  thus.  If  it  be  true  that 
among  the  works  of  the  old  masters,  Apelles,  Poly- 
cletus, and  others  of  that  class,  there  were  but  three 
whose  inscriptions  stood  in  definite  past  time,  and  if 
it  be  further  true  that  Pliny  has  mentioned  these 
three  by  name,1  then  Athenodorus,  who  had  made 
neither  of  these  three  works,  and  who  nevertheless 
employs  the  definite  past  time  in  his  inscriptions, 
cannot  belong  among  those  old  masters ; he  cannot 
be  a contemporary  of  Apelles  and  Lysippus,  but 
must  have  a later  date  assigned  him. 

In  short,  we  may,  I think,  take  it  as  a safe  criterion 
that  all  artists  who  employed  the  STtotyae,  the  definite 
past  tense,  flourished  long  after  the  time  of  Alexander 
the  Great,  either  under  the  empire  or  shortly  before. 
Of  Cleomenes  this  is  unquestionably  true ; highly 
probable  of  Archelaus  ; and  of  Salpion  the  con- 
trary, at  least,  cannot  be  proved.  So  also  of  the 
rest,  not  excepting  Athenodorus. 

Let  Winkelmann  himself  decide.  But  I protest 
beforehand  against  the  converse  of  the  proposition. 
If  all  who  employed  the  eTtoirjas  belong  among  the 
later  artists,  not  all  who  have  used  the  Irtolu  are  to 
be  reckoned  among  the  earliest.  Some  of  the  more 
recent  artists  also  may  have  really  possessed  this 
becoming  modesty,  and  by  others  it  may  have  been 
assumed. 


1 See  Appendix,  note  55. 


LAOCOON. 


183 


XXVIII. 

Next  to  his  judgment  of  the  Laocoon,  I was  curious 
to  know  what  Winkelmann  would  say  of  the  so-called 
Borghese  Gladiator.  I think  I have  made  a discov- 
ery with  regard  to  this  statue,  and  I rejoice  in  it  with 
all  a discoverer’s  delight. 

I feared  lest  Winkelmann  should  have  anticipated 
me,  but  there  is  nothing  of  the  kind  in  his  work.  If 
ought  could  make  me  doubt  the  correctness  of  my 
conjecture,  it  would  be  the  fact  that  my  alarm  was 
uncalled  for. 

“ Some  critics,”  says  Winkelmann,1  “ take  this  statue 
for  that  of  a discobolus,  that  is,  of  a person  throwing 
a disc  or  plate  of  metal.  This  opinion  was  expressed 
by  the  famous  Herr  von  Stosch  in  a paper  addressed 
to  me.  But  he  cannot  have  sufficiently  studied  the 
position  which  such  a figure  would  assume.  A per- 
son in  the  act  of  throwing  must  incline  his  body 
backward,  with  the  weight  upon  the  right  thigh, 
while  the  left  leg  is  idle.  Here  the  contrary  is  the 
case.  The  whole  figure  is  thrown  forward,  and  rests 
on  the  left  thigh  while  the  right  leg  is  stretched  back- 
ward to  its  full  extent.  The  right  arm  is  new,  and  a 
piece  of  a lance  has  been  placed  in  the  hand.  On 

1 Geschichte  der  Kunst,  part  i.  p.  394. 


1 34 


LAOCOON. 


the  left  can  be  seen  the  strap  that  held  the  shield, 
The  fact  that  the  head  and  eyes  are  turned  upward 
and  that  the  figure  seems  to  be  protecting  himself 
with  the  shield  against  some  danger  from  above  would 
rather  lead  us  to  consider  this  statue  as  representing 
a soldier  who  had  especially  distinguished  himself  in 
some  position  of  peril.  The  Greeks  probably  never 
paid  their  gladiators  the  honor  of  erecting  them  a 
statue  ; and  this  work,  moreover,  seems  to  have  been 
made  previous  to  the  introduction  of  gladiators  into 
Greece.” 

The  criticism  is  perfectly  just.  The  statue  is  no 
more  a gladiator  than  it  is  a discobolus,  but  really 
represents  a soldier  who  distinguished  himself  in  this 
position  on  occasion  of  some  great  danger.  After 
this  happy  guess,  how  could  Winkelmann  help  going 
a step  further  ? Why  did  he  not  think  of  that  warrior 
who  in  this  very  attitude  averted  the  destruction  of  a 
whole  army,  and  to  whom  his  grateful  country  erected 
a statue  in  the  same  posture  ? 

The  statue,  in  short,  is  Chabrias. 

This  is  proved  by  the  following  passage  from 
Nepos’  life  of  that  commander:—-1 

1 Cap.  i.  “ He  was  also  reckoned  among  their  greatest 
leaders,  and  did  many  things  worthy  of  being  remembered. 
Among  his  most  brilliant  achievements  was  his  device  in  the 
battle  which  took  place  near  Thebes,  when  he  had  come  to  the 
aid  of  the  Boeotians.  For  when  the  great  leader  Agesilaus 
wcs  now  confident  of  victory,  and  his  own  hired  troops  had 
fled  he  would  not  surrender  the  remainder  of  the  phalanx,  but 
with  knee  braced  against  his  shield  and  lance  thrust  forward, 
he  taught  his  men  to  receive  the  attack  of  the  enemy.  At 


LAOCOON. 


185 


“ Hie  quoque  in  summis  habitus  est  ducibus  ; resque  multas 
memoria  dignas  gessit,  Sed  ex  his  elucet  maxime  inventum 
ejus  in  preelio,  quod  apud  Thebas  fecit,  quum  Boeotiis  subsidio 
venisset.  Namque  in  eo  victoriae  fidente  summo  duce  Age- 
silao,  fugatis  jam  ab  ea  conductitiis  catervis,  reliquam  phalan- 
gem  loco  vetuit  cedere,  obnixoque  genu  scuto,  projectaque 
hasta  impetum  excipere  hostium  docuit.  Id  novum  Agesilaus 
contuens,  progredi  non  est  ausus  suosque  jam  incurrentes  tuba 
revocavit.  Hoc  usque  eo  tota  Graecia  fama  celebratum  est, 
ut  illo  statu  Chabrias  sibi  statuam  fieri  voluer it,  quae  publice  ei 
ab  Atheniensibus  in  foro  constituta  est.  Ex  quo  factum  est, 
ut  postea  athletae,  ceterique  artifices  his  statibus  in  statuis 
ponendis  uterentur  in  quibus  victoriam  essent  adepti.” 

The  reader  will  hesitate  a moment,  I know,  before 
yielding  his  assent ; but,  I hope,  only  for  a moment. 
The  attitude  of  Chabrias  appears  to  be  not  exactly  that 
of  the  Borghese  statue.  The  thrusting  forward  of  the 
lance,  “ projecta  hasta,”  is  common  to  both ; but  com- 
mentators explain  the  “obnixo  genu  scuto”  to  be 
“ obnixo  genu  in  scutum,”  “ obfirmato  genu  ad  scu- 
tum.” Chabrias  is  supposed  to  have  showed  his  men 
how  to  brace  the  knee  against  the  shield  and  await  the 
enemy  behind  this  bulwark,  whereas  the  statue  holds 
the  shield  aloft.  But  what  if  the  commentators  are 
wrong,  and  instead  of  “ obnixo  genu  scuto  ” belong- 

sighf  of  this  new  spectacle,  Agesilaus  feared  to  advance,  and 
ordered  the  trumpet  to  recall  his  men  who  were  already 
advancing.  This  became  famous  through  all  Greece,  and 
Chabrias  wished  that  a statue  should  be  erected  to  him  in  this 
position,  which  was  set  up  at  the  public  cost  in  the  forum  at 
Athens.  Whence  it  happened  that  afterwards  athletes  and 
other  artists  [or  persons  versed  in  some  art]  had  statues 
erected  to  them  in  the  same  position  in  which  they  had 
obtained  victory.” 


LAOCOQN. 


1 86 

ing  together,  “ obnixo  genu  ” were  meant  to  be  read 
by  itself  and  “ scuto  ” alone,  or  in  connection  with 
the  “projectaque  hasta,”  which  follows?  The  inser- 
tion of  a single  comma  makes  the  correspondence 
perfect.  The  statue  is  a soldier,  “ qui  obnixo  genu,1 
scuto  projectaque  hasta  impetum  hostis  excipit,”  who, 
with  firmly  set  knee,  and  shield  and  lance  advanced, 
awaits  the  approach  of  the  enemy.  It  shows  what 
Chabrias  did,  and  is  the  statue  of  Chabrias.  That  a 
comma  belongs  here  is  proved  by  the  “ que  ” affixed 
to  the  “projecta,”  which  would  be  superfluous  if 
“ obnixo  genu  scuto”  belonged  together,  and  has, 
therefore,  been  actually  omitted  in  some  editions. 

The  great  antiquity  which  this  interpretation  as- 
signs to  the  statue  is  confirmed  by  the  shape  of  the 
letters  in  the  inscription.  These  led  Winkelmann 
himself  to  the  conclusion  that  this  was  the  oldest  of 
the  statues  at  present  existing  in  Rome  on  which  the 
master  had  written  his  name.  I leave  it  to  his  critical 
eye  to  detect,  if  possible,  in  the  style  of  the  work- 
manship any  thing  which  conflicts  with  my  opinion. 
Should  he  bestow  his  approval,  I may  flatter  myself 
on  having  furnished  a better  example  than  is  to  be 
found  in  Spence’s  whole  folio  of  the  happy  manner 
in  which  the  classic  authors  can  be  explained  by  the 
old  masterpieces,  and  in  turn  throw  light  upon  them. 


1 See  Appendix,  note  5& 


LAOCOON. 


I87 


XXIX. 

Winkelmann  has  brought  to  his  work,  together  with 
immense  reading  and  an  extensive  and  subtle  knowl- 
edge of  art,  that  noble  confidence  of  the  old  masters 
wrhich  led  them  to  devote  all  their  attention  to  the 
main  object,  treating  all  secondary  matters  with  what 
seems  like  studied  neglect,  or  abandoning  them  alto- 
gether to  any  chance  hand. 

A man  may  take  no  little  credit  to  himself  for 
having  committed  only  such  errors  as  anybody  might 
have  avoided.  They  force  themselves  upon  our 
notice  at  the  first  hasty  reading  ; and  my  only  excuse 
for  commenting  on  them  is  that  I would  remind  a 
certain  class  of  persons,  who  seem  to  think  no  one 
has  eyes  but  themselves,  that  they  are  trifles  not 
worthy  of  comment. 

In  his  writings  on  the  imitation  of  the  Greek  works 
of  art,  Winkelmann  had  before  allowed  himself  to 
be  misled  by  Junius,  who  is,  indeed,  a very  decep- 
tive author.  His  whole  work  is  a cento,  and  since 
his  rule  is  to  quote  the  ancients  in  their  very  words, 
he  not  infrequently  applies  to  painting  passages 
which  in  their  original  connection  had  no  bearing 
whatever  on  the  subject.  When,  for  instance,  Win- 
kelmann would  tell  us  that  the  highest  effect  in  art,  as 


LAOCOON. 


l88 

in  poetry,  cannot  be  attained  by  the  mere  imitation  of 
nature,  and  that  poet  as  well  as  painter  should  choose 
an  impossibility  which  carries  probability  with  it 
rather  than  what  is  simply  possible,  he  adds  : “ This 
is  perfectly  consistent  with  Longinus’  requirement 
of  possibility  and  truth  from  the  painter  in  opposition 
to  the  incredibility  which  he  requires  from  the  poet.” 
Yet  the  addition  was  unfortunate,  for  it  shows  a 
seeming  contradiction  between  the  two  great  art 
critics  which  really  does  not  exist  Longinus  never 
said  what  is  here  attributed  to  him.  Something  sim- 
ilar he  does  say  with  regard  to  eloquence  and  poetry, 
but  by  no  means  of  poetry  and  painting.  ’Qg  d’ 
txsQOv  xi  i]  QTjXOQixyj  qp avxaaia  fiovlexai,  xai  tregov  7j 
TtaQO,  TToiTjxatg , ovx  dv  Xd&oi  crs,  ovd"  on  xrjg  pev  tv  Tcoirjaet 
x slog  toxlv  tXTtXrjlgig,  xrjg  8J  tv  loyoig  evagyeia,  he  writes 
to  his  friend  Terentian  ; 1 and  again,  Vv  p?)v  dlld  xa 
ptv  Tzaod  xolg  noiryzcug  pv&MmxtQuv  tyei  xijv  vTttQtxrtxcooiv, 
xal  rtavxfj  x 6 moxbv  vTteQaigovaav * xrjg  de  (fijxoQixijg  cp uv~ 
iccoiag,  ndlXioxov  del  tpTtQaxxov  vied  tvahjOsg.2 

But  Junius  interpolates  here  painting  instead  of 
oratory,  and  it  was  in  his  writings,  not  in  those  of 
Longinus,  that  Winkelmann  read : “ Praesertim  cum 
poeticae  phantasiae  finis  sit  hTtlrfeig,  pictoriae  vero,  tvuQ- 
yeiaf  xai  xd  plv  TtaQce  xolg  noiryieug , ut  loquitur  idem 

1 Ilept  eT rpovc,  T/ir/fia,  id'  (edit.  T.  Fabri),  p.  36,  39.  '‘But  so 
it  is  that  rhetorical  figures  aim  at  one  thing,  poetical  figures  at 
quite  another  ; since  in  poetry  emphasis  is  the  main  object,  in 
rhetoric  distinctness.” 

2 “ So  with  the  poets,  legends  and  exaggeration  obtain  and 
in  all  transcend  belief;  but  in  rhetorical  figures  the  best  ia 
always  the  practicable  and  the  true.': 


LAOCOON.  189 

Longinus,”  &C.1  The  words  of  Longinus,  to  be 
sure,  but  not  his  meaning. 

The  same  must  have  been  the  case  with  the  follow- 
ing remark : 2 “ All  motions  and  attitudes  of  Greek 
figures  which  were  too  wild  and  fiery  to  be  in  accord- 
ance with  the  character  of  wisdom,  were  accounted 
as  faults  by  the  old  masters  and  classed  by  them 
under  the  general  name  of  parenthyrsus The  old 
masters  ? There  can  be  no  authority  for  that  except 
Junius.  Parenthyrsus  was  a word  used  in  rhetoric, 
and,  as  a passage  in  Longinus  would  seem  to  show, 
even  there  peculiar  to  Theodorus.3  Tovrcp  rtagcc- 
xeircu  zQizov  x i xcMiag  d8og  Iv  zoig  Tta&rfnxoig,  omq  6 
OeodcoQog  tzccqsv&vqgov  txaler  sari  ds  7ta&og  axcuQov  y.vX 
xsvov,  ’ivd'a  p/  8si  Tta&ovg • rj  apezgov,  evxta  (lezQiov  dsi. 

I doubt,  indeed,  whether  this  word  can  be  trans- 
lated into  the  language  of  painting.  For  in  oratory 
and  poetry  pathos  can  be  carried  to  extreme  without 
becoming  parenthyrsus , which  is  only  the  extreme  of 
pathos  in  the  wrong  place.  But  in  painting  the 
extreme  of  pathos  would  always  be  parenthyrsus , 
whatever  its  excuse  in  the  circumstances  of  the  per- 
sons concerned. 

So,  also,  various  errors  in  the  “ History  of  Art  ” 
have  arisen  solely  from  Winkelmann’s  haste  in  accept- 

1 De  Pictura  Vet.  lib.  i.  cap.  4,  p.  33. 

2 Von  der  Nachahmung  der  griech.  Werke,  &c.,  23. 

3 T (ifijia,  0,  “Next  to  this  is  a third  form  of  faultiness  in 
pathos,  which  Theodorus  calls  parenthyrsus ; it  is  a pathos 
unseasonable  and  empty,  where  pathos  is  not  necessary ; or 
immoderate,  where  it  should  be  moderate.” 


190 


LA0C00N. 


ing  Junius  instead  of  consulting  the  original  authors. 
When,  for  instance,  he  is  citing  examples  to  show 
that  excellence  in  all  departments  of  art  and  labor 
was  so  highly  prized  by  the  Greeks,  that  the  best 
workman,  even  on  an  insignificant  thing,  might 
immortalize  his  name,  he  brings  forward  this  among 
others : 1 “ We  know  the  name  of  a maker  of  very 
exact  balances  or  scales  ; he  was  called  Parthenius.” 
Winkelmann  must  have  read  the  words  of  Juvenal, 
“ lances  Parthenio  factas,”  which  he  here  appeals 
to,  only  in  Junius’s  catalogue.  Had  he  looked  up 
the  original  passage  in  Juvenal,  he  would  not  have 
been  misled  by  the  double  meaning  of  the  word 
“ lanx,”  but  would  at  once  have  seen  from  the  con- 
nection that  the  poet  was  not  speaking  of  balances 
or  scales,  but  of  plates  and  dishes.  Juvenal  is 
praising  Catullus  for  throwing  overboard  his  treas- 
ures during  a violent  storm  at  sea,  in  order  to  save 
the  ship  and  himself.  In  his  description  of  these 
treasures,  he  says  : — 

Ille  nec  argentum  dubitabat  mittere,  lances 
Parthenio  factas,  urnae  cratera  capacem 
Et  dignum  sitiente  Pholo,  vel  conjuge  FuscL 
Adde  et  bascaudas  et  mille  escaria,  multum 
Caelati,  biberet  quo  callidus  emtor  Olynthi. 

What  can  the  “ lances  ” be  which  are  here  stand- 
ing among  drinking-cups  and  bowls,  but  plates  and 
dishes  ? And  what  does  Juvenal  mean,  except  that 
Catullus  threw  overboard  his  whole  silver  table-ser- 
vice, including  plates  made  by  Parthenius.  “ Par- 

1 Geschichte  der  Kunst,  part  i,  p.  1361 


LAOCOON. 


191 

thenius,”  says  the  old  scholiast,  “ coelatoris  nomen  ” 
(the  name  of  the  engraver).  But  when  Grangaus,  in 
his  annotations,  appends  to  this  name,  “ sculptor,  de 
quo  Plinius  ” (sculptor  spoken  of  by  Pliny),  he  must 
have  been  writing  at  random,  for  Pliny  speaks  of  no 
artist  of  that  name. 

“Yes,”  continues  Winkelmann,  “even  the  name 
of  the  saddler,  as  we  should  call  him,  has  been  pre~ 
served,  who  made  the  leather  shield  of  Ajax.”  This 
he  cannot  have  derived  from  the  source  to  which  he 
refers  his  readers,  — the  life  of  Homer,  by  Herod- 
otus. Here,  indeed,  the  lines  from  the  Iliad  are 
quoted  wherein  the  poet  applies  to  this  worker  in 
leather  the  name  Tychius.  But  it  is  at  the  same 
time  expressly  stated  that  this  was  the  name  of  a 
worker  in  leather  of  Homer’s  acquaintance,  whose 
name  he  thus  introduced  in  token  of  his  friendship 
and  gratitude.1 

uZttsSgms  8s  %(£Qiv  xcu  Tvyioo  rep  gxvtsl  og  sSs^aro  avtbv 
tv  rep  Nscp  r siysc,  tiqogsX&ovtcc,  rtpog  to  gxvtsiov , tv  tolg 
trtsGi  xara&vl-ag  tv  tfi  ’Ihctdi  toig  8s : 

Jiiag  8 ’ tyyv&sv  yld'S,  cpspcov  Gaxog  ryvts  nvQyov , 
ydlxsov,  smotfiosiov'  0 01  Tvyiog  xufis  tsvycov 
G%vtot6pi(ov  of  agiGtog,  "Tli]  hi  oirna  vaicov  2 

Here  we  have  exactly  the  opposite  of  what  Wink- 
elmann asserts.  So  utterly  forgotten,  even  in  Homer’s 
time,  was  the  name  of  the  saddler  who  made  the 

1 Herodotus  de  Vita  Homeri,  p.  756  (edit.  Wessd). 

2 Iliad,  viL 


192 


LAOCOON. 


shield  of  Ajax,  that  the  poet  was  at  liberty  to  substi- 
tute that  of  a perfect  stranger. 

Various  other  little  errors  I have  found  which  are 
mere  slips  of  memory,  or  concern  things  introduced 
merely  as  incidental  illustrations. 

For  instance,  it  was  Hercules,  not  Bacchus,  who, 
as  Parrhasius  boasts,  appeared  to  him  in  the  same 
shape  he  had  given  him  on  the  canvas.1 

Tauriscus  was  not  from  Rhodes,  but  from  Tralles, 
in  Lydia.2 

The  Antigone  was  not  the  first  tragedy  of  Soph- 
ocles.8 

But  I refrain  from  multiplying  such  trifles. 

Censoriousness  it  could  not  be  taken  for ; but  to 
those  who  know  my  great  respect  for  Winkelmann  it 
might  seem  trifling. 

1 Geschichte  der  Kunst,  part  i.  p.  176.  Plinius,  lib.  xxxv. 
sect.  36.  Athenaeus,  lib.  xii.  p.  543. 

2 Geschichte  der  Kunst,  part  ii.  p.  353.  Plinius,  lib.  xxxvi, 

sect.  4.  8 See  Appendix,  note  57. 


NOTES  TO  THE  LAOCOON. 


NOTES  TO  THE  LAOCOON 


♦ 


Note  i,  p.  8. 

Antxochus  (Anthol.  lib.  ii.  cap.  4).  Hardouin,  in  his  com- 
mentary on  Pliny  (lib.  xxxv.  sect.  36),  attributes  this  epigram 
to  a certain  Piso.  But  among  all  the  Greek  epigrammatists 
there  is  none  of  this  name. 

Note  2,  p.  9. 

For  this  reason  Aristotle  commanded  that  his  pictures  should 
not  be  shown  to  young  persons,  in  order  that  their  imagination 
might  be  kept  as  free  as  possible  from  all  disagreeable  images. 
(Polit.  lib.  viii.  cap.  5,  p.  526,  edit.  Conring.)  Boden,  indeed, 
would  read  Pausanias  in  this  passage  instead  of  Pauson, 
because  that  artist  is  known  to  have  painted  lewd  figures  (de 
Umbra  poetica  comment.  1,  p.  xiii).  As  if  we  needed  a philo- 
sophic  law-giver  to  teach  us  the  necessity  of  keeping  from 
youth  such  incentives  to  wantonness ! A comparison  of 
this  with  the  well-known  passage  in  the  “Art  of  Poesy” 
would  have  led  him  to  withhold  his  conjecture.  There  are 
commentators,  as  Kuhn  on  Ailian  (Yar.  Hist.  lib.  iv.  cap.  3), 
who  suppose  the  difference  mentioned  by  Aristotle  as  exist- 
ing between  Polygnotus,  Dionysius,  and  Pauson  to  consist 
in  this : that  Polygnotus  painted  gods  and  heroes ; Diony- 
sius, men ; and  Pauson,  animals.  They  all  painted  human 
figures ; and  the  fact  that  Pauson  once  painted  a horse, 
does  not  prove  him  to  have  been  a painter  of  animals  as 
Boden  supposes  him  to  have  been.  Their  rank  was  deter- 
mined by  the  degree  of  beauty  they  gave  their  human  figures ; 


NOTES. 


I96 

and  the  reason  that  Dionysius  could  paint  nothing  but  men, 
and  was  therefore  called  pre-eminently  the  anthropographist, 
was  that  he  copied  too  slavishly,  and  could  not  rise  into  the 
domain  of  the  ideal  beneath  which  it  would  have  been  blas- 
phemy to  represent  gods  and  heroes. 

Note  3,  p.  ir. 

The  serpent  has  been  erroneously  regarded  as  the  peculiar 
symbol  of  a god  of  medicine.  But  Justin  Martyr  expressly 
says  (Apolog.  ii.  p.  55,  edit.  Sylburgh),  napa  navrl  tuv  vopitjo- 
fievuv  nap1  v/uv  deuv,  b<pig  csvp(3o\ov  peya  ml  pvcrqpiov  avaypacftETcu ; 
and  a number  of  monuments  might  be  mentioned  where  the 
serpent  accompanies  deities  having  no  connection  with  health. 

Note  4,  p.  12. 

Look  through  all  the  works  of  art  mentioned  by  Pliny,  Pau- 
sanias,  and  the  rest,  examine  all  the  remaining  statues,  bas- 
reliefs,  and  pictures  of  the  ancients,  and  nowhere  will  you  find 
a fury.  I except  figures  that  are  rather  symbolical  than  be- 
longing to  art,  such  as  those  generally  represented  on  coins. 
Yet  Spence,  since  he  insisted  on  having  furies,  would  have 
done  better  to  borrow  them  from  coins  than  introduce  them  by  an 
ingenious  conceit  into  a work  where  they  certainly  do  not  exist. 
(Seguini  Numis.  p.  178.  Spanheim.  de  Praest.  Numism. 
Dissert,  xiii.  p.  639.  Les  Cesars  de  Julien,  par  Spanheim, 
p.  48.  In  his  Polymetis  he  says  (dial,  xvi.)  : “ Though  furies 
are  very  uncommon  in  the  works  of  the  ancient  artists,  yet 
there  is  one  subject  in  which  they  are  generally  introduced  by 
them.  I mean  the  death  of  Meleager,  in  the  relievos  of 
which  they  are  often  represented  as  encouraging  or  urging 
Althaea  to  burn  the  fatal  brand  on  which  the  life  of  her  only 
son  depended.  Even  a woman’s  resentment,  you  see,  could 
not  go  so  far  without  a little  help  from  the  devil.  In  a copy  of 
one  of  these  relievos,  published  in  the  * Admiranda,’  there  are 
two  women  standing  by  the  altar  with  Althaea,  who  are  proba- 
bly meant  for  furies  in  the  original,  (for  who  but  furies  would 
assist  at  such  a sacrifice?)  though  the  copy  scarce  rep  resents 


NOTES. 


197 


tnem  horrid  enough  for  that  character.  But  what  is  most  to 
be  observed  in  that  piece  is  the  round  disc  beneath  the  centre 
of  it,  with  the  evident  head  of  a fury  upon  it.  This  might 
be  what  Altheea  addressed  her  prayers  to  whenever  she  wished 
ill  to  her  neighbors,  or  whenever  she  was  going  to  do  any 
very  evil  action.  Ovid  introduces  her  as  invoking  the  furies 
on  this  occasion  in  particular,  and  makes  her  give  more  than 
one  reason  for  her  doing  so.”  (Metamorph.  viii.  479.) 

In  this  way  we  might  make  every  thing  out  of  any  thing. 
“Who  but  furies,”  asks  Spence,  “would  have  assisted  at  such 
a sacrifice  ? ” I answer,  the  maid-servants  of  Althaea,  who 
had  to  kindle  and  feed  the  fire.  Ovid  says  (Metamorph. 
viii.)  : — 

Protulit  hunc  (stipitem)  genetrix,  tsedasque  in  fragmina  poni 
Imperat,  et  positis  inimicos  admovet  ignes. 

“ The  mother  brought  the  brand  and  commands  torches  to  be 
placed  upon  the  pieces,  and  applies  hostile  flame  to  the  pile.” 
Both  figures  have  actually  in  their  hands  these  “ taedas,”  long 
pieces  of  pine,  such  as  the  ancients  used  for  torches,  and  one, 
as  her  attitude  shows,  has  just  broken  such  a piece.  As  little 
do  I recognize  a fury  upon  the  disc  towards  the  middle  of  the 
work.  It  is  a face  expressive  of  violent  pain, — doubtless  the 
head  of  Meleager  himself  (Metamorph.  viii.  515). 

Inscius  atque  absens  flamma  Meleagros  in  ilia 
Uritur  ; et  caecis  torreri  viscera  sentit 
Ignibus  ; et  magnos  superat  virtute  dolores. 

“ Meleager,  absent  and  unconscious,  is  consumed  in  that  fire, 
and  feels  his  bowels  parched  with  the  unseen  flames ; yet 
with  courage  he  subdues  the  dreadful  pains.” 

The  artist  used  this  as  an  introduction  to  the  next  incident  of 
the  same  story, — the  death  of  Meleager.  What  Spence 
makes  furies,  Montfaucon  took  to  be  fates,  with  the  exception 
of  the  head  upon  the  disc,  which  he  also  calls  a fury.  Bellori 
leaves  it  undecided  whether  they  are  fates  or  furies.  An  “ or  ” 
which  sufficiently  proves  that  they  are  neither  the  one  nor  the 
Other.  Montfaucon’s  further  interpretation  should  have  been 


198 


NOTES. 


clearer.  The  female  figure  resting  on  her  elbows  by  the  bed, 
he  should  have  called  Cassandra,  not  Atalanta.  Atalanta  is 
the  one  sitting  in  a grieving  attitude  with  her  bark  towards 
the  bed.  The  artist  has  very  wisely  turned  her  away  from  the 
family,  as  being  only  the  beloved,  not  the  wife,  of  Meleager, 
and  because  her  distress  at  a calamity  of  which  she  had  been 
the  innocent  cause  must  have  exasperated  his  family. 

Note  5,  p.  14. 

He  thus  describes  the  degrees  of  sadness  actually  expressed 
by  Timanthes  : “ Calchantern  tristem,  m restum  Ulyssem,  cla- 
mantem  Ajacem,  lamentantem  Menelaum.”  Ajax  screaming 
would  have  been  extremely  ugly,  and  since  neither  Cicero  nor 
Quintilian,  when  speaking  of  this  picture,  so  describe  him,  I 
shall  venture  with  the  less  hesitation  to  consider  this  an  addi- 
tion with  which  Valerius  has  enriched  the  canvas  from  his 
own  invention. 

Note  6,  p.  15. 

We  read  in  Pliny  (lib.  34,  sect.  19)  : “Eundem  [Myro]  vicit 
et  Pythagoras  Leontinus,  qui  fecit  statiodromon  Astylon,  qui 
Olympiae  ostenditur : et  Libyn  puerum  tenentem  tabulam, 
eodem  loco,  et  mala  ferentem  nudum.  Syracusis  autem  clau- 
dicantem : cujus  hulceris  dolorem  sentire  etiam  spectantes 
videntur.”  “Pythagoras  Leontinus  surpassed  him  (Myro). 
He  made  the  statue  of  the  runner,  Astylon,  which  is  exhibited 
at  Olympia,  and  in  the  same  place  a Libyan  boy  holding  a tablet, 
and  a rude  statue  bearing  apples ; but  at  Syracuse  a limping 
figure,  the  pain  of  whose  sore  the  beholders  themselves  seem 
to  feel.”  Let  us  examine  these  last  words  more  closely.  Is 
there  not  evident  reference  here  to  some  person  well  known  as 
having  a painful  ulcer?  “Cujus  hulceris,”  &c.  And  shall 
that  “cujus  ” be  made  to  refer  simply  to  the  “ claudicantem,” 
and  the  “claudicantem,”  perhaps,  to  the  still  more  remote 
“puerum  ? ” No  one  had  more  reason  to  be  known  by  such  a 
malady  than  Philoctetes.  I read,  therefore,  for  “claudican- 
tem,” “ Philoctetem,”  or,  at  least,  both  together,  “Philocte* 


NOTES. 


I99 


tem  daudicantem,”  supposing  that,  as  the  words  were  so 
similar  in  sound,  one  had  crowded  out  the  other.  Sophocles 
represents  him  as  gt'i/3ov  kclt*  avaynTjv  Spnetv,  compelled  to  drag 
his  limping  gait,  and  his  not  being  able  to  tread  as  firmly  oil 
his  wounded  foot  would  have  occasioned  a limp. 

Note  7,  p.  24. 

When  the  chorus  perceives  Philoctetes  under  this  accumula- 
tion of  miseries,  his  helpless  solitude  seems  the  circumstance 
that  chiefly  touches  them.  We  hear  in  every  word  the  social 
Greek.  With  regard  to  one  passage,  however,  I have  my 
doubts.  It  is  this  : — 

*IV  avrdg  ijv  irpboovpoq  ova  ix<*>v  (3aoivt 
ovbe  tlv ’ tyx&puv, 

KaKoyiirova  reap ’ c5  gtovov  avrirunov 
(3apvPp£)T'  dnoK^av  — 

GELtv  alfiaTTipbv. 

Lit. : I myself,  my  only  neighbor,  having  no  power  to  walk, 
nor  any  companion,  a neighbor  in  ill,  to  whom  I might  wail 
forth  my  echoing,  gnawing  groans,  bloodstained. 

The  common  translation  of  Winshem  renders  the  lines 
thus : • — 

Ventis  expositus  et  pedibus  captus 
Nullum  cohabitatorem 

Nec  vicinum  ullum  saltern  malum  habens,  apud  quem  gemitum  mutuum. 

Gravemque  ac  cruentum 

Ederet. 

The  translation  of  Thomas  Johnson  differs  from  this  only 
in  the  choice  of  words  : — 

Ubi  ipse  ventis  erat  expositus,  firmura  gradum  non  habens, 

Nec  quenquam  indigenarum, 

Nec  malum  vicinum,  apud  quem  ploraret 

Vehementur  edacem 

Sanguineum  morbum,  mutuo  gemitu. 

One  might  think  he  had  borrowed  these  words  from  the  trans- 
lation of  Thomas  Naogeorgus,  who  expresses  himself  thus 


200 


NOTES. 


(his  work  is  very  rare,  and  Fabricius  himself  knew  it  only 
through  Operin’s  Catalogue)  : — 

. . . ubi  expositus  fuit 

Ventis  ipse,  gradum  firmum  haud  habens, 

Nec  quenquam  indigenam,  nec  vel  malum 
Vicinum,  ploraret  apud  quem 
Vehementer  edacem  atque  cruentum 
Morbum  mutuo. 

If  these  translations  are  correct,  the  chorus  pronounces  the 
strongest  possible  eulogy  on  human  society.  The  wretch 
has  no  human  being  near  him ; he  knows  of  no  friendly 
neighbor ; even  a bad  one  would  have  been  happiness.  Thom- 
son, then,  might  have  had  this  passage  in  mind  when  he  puts 
these  words  into  the  mouth  of  his  Melisander,  who  was  like- 
wise abandoned  by  ruffians  on  a desert  island  : — 

Cast  on  the  wildest  of  the  Cyclad  isles 
Where  never  human  foot  had  marked  the  shore, 

These  ruffians  left  me ; yet  believe  me,  Areas, 

Such  is  the  rooted  love  we  bear  mankind, 

All  ruffians  as  they  were,  I never  heard 
A sound  so  dismal  as  their  parting  oars. 

To  him,  also,  the  society  of  ruffians  was  better  than  none.  A 
great  and  admirable  idea ! If  we  could  but  be  sure  that 
Sophocles,  too,  had  meant  to  express  it ! But  I must  reluc- 
tantly confess  to  finding  nothing  of  the  sort  in  him,  unless, 
indeed,  I were  to  use,  instead  of  my  own  eyes,  those  of  the 
old  scholiast,  who  thus  transposes  the  words  : — Ov  (ibvou 
onov  nalov  ova  eixb  Tiva  rcbv  tyxup'u»v  yeirova,  uXku.  ovde  uaaov , 
wap’  ov  apoiftalov  kbyov  otevu&v  axovoete.  Brumoy,  as  well  as 
our  modern  German  translator,  has  held  to  this  reading,  like 
the  translators  quoted  above.  Brumoy  says,  “ Sans  societe, 
meme  importune;”  and  the  German,  “jeder  Gesellschaft, 
auch  der  beschwerlichsten,  beraubt.”  My  reasons  for  differ- 
ing from  all  of  these  are  the  following.  First,  it  is  evident 
that  if  Kanoyeirova  was  meant  to  be  separated  from  7w’  kyxupuv 
and  constitute  a distinct  clause,  the  particle  ovde  would  neces- 
sarily have  been  repeated  before  it.  Since  this  is  not  the 


NOTES. 


20  r 


case,  it  is  equally  evident  that  KaKoyetrova  belongs  to  riva,  and 
there  should  be  no  comma  after  tyx^/juv.  This  comma  crept 
in  from  the  translation.  Accordingly,  I find  that  some  Greek 
editions  (as  that  published  at  Wittenberg  of  1585  in  8vo,  which 
was  wholly  unknown  to  Fabricius)  are  without  it,  but  put  a 
comma  only  after  KanoyeiTova,  as  is  proper.  Secondly,  is  that 
a bad  neighbor  from  whom  we  may  expect,  as  the  scholiast 
has  it,  gtovov  uvtItvttov,  apoifiaiov  ? To  mingle  his  sighs  with 
ours  is  the  office  of  a friend,  not  an  enemy.  In  short,  the 
n ord  Kaiwye'iTova  has  not  been  rightly  understood.  It  has  been 
thought  to  be  derived  from  the  adjective  /ca/cof,  when  it  is 
really  derived  from  the  substantive  to  kokov.  It  has  been 
translated  an  evil  neighbor,  instead  of  a neighbor  in  ill.  Just 
as  naKOfiavnc  means  not  an  evil,  in  the  sense  of  a false, 
untrue  prophet,  but  a prophet  of  evil,  and  KaKorexvoc  means 
not  a bad,  unskilful  painter,  but  a painter  of  bad  things.  In 
this  passage  the  poet  means  by  a neighbor  in  ill,  one  who  is 
overtaken  by  a similar  misfortune  with  ourselves,  or  from 
friendship  shares  our  sufferings  ; so  that  the  whole  expression, 
ovd ’ kx^v  tlv ’ tyxupw  aanoyeiTova,  is  to  be  translated  simply  by 
“neque  quenquam  indigenarum  mali  socium  habens.”  The 
new  English  translator  of  Sophocles,  Thomas  Franklin,  must 
have  been  of  my  opinion.  Neither  does  he  find  an  evil  neigh- 
bor in  KanoyeLTuv,  but  translates  it  simply  “ fellow-mourner.” 

Exposed  to  the  inclement  skies, 

Deserted  and  forlorn  he  lies, 

No  friend  nor  fellow-mourner  there, 

To  soothe  his  sorrow  and  divide  his  care. 

Note  8,  p.  34. 

Saturnal.  lib.  v.  cap.  2.  “ Non  parva  sunt  alia  quae  Virgiliua 

traxit  a Graecis,  dicturumne  me  putatis  quae  vulgo  nota  sunt  ? 
quod  Theocritum  sibi  fecerit  pastoralis  operis  autorem,  ruralis 
Ilesiodum  ? et  quod  in  ipsis  Georgicis,  tempestatis  serenita- 
tisque  signa  de  Arati  Phaenomenis  traxerit  ? vel  quod  ever- 
Bionem  Trojae,  cum  Sinone  suo,  et  equo  ligneo  caeterisque 
omnibus,  quae  librum  secundum  faciunt,  a Pisandro  pene  ad 


202 


NOTES. 


verbum  transcripserit  ? qui  inter  Graecos  poetas  eminet  opere, 
quod  a nuptiis  Jovis  et  Junonis  incipiens  universas  historias, 
quae  mediis  omnibus  saeculis  usque  ad  aetatem  ipsius  Pisandri 
contigerunt,  in  unam  seriem  coactas  redegerit,  et  unum  ex 
diversis  hiatibus  temporum  corpus  effecerit  ? in  quo  opere  inter 
historias  caeteras  interitus  quoque  Trojae  in  hunc  modum 
relatus  est.  Quae  fideliter  Maro  interpretando,  fabricatus  est 
sibi  Iliacae  urbis  ruinam.  Sed  et  haec  et  talia  ut  pueris  decan- 
tata praetereo.” 

Not  a few  other  things  were  brought  by  Virgil  from  the 
Greeks,  and  inserted  in  his  poem  as  original.  Do  you  think  I 
would  speak  of  what  is  known  to  all  the  world  ? how  he  took 
his  pastoral  poem  from  Theocritus,  his  rural  from  Hesiod? 
and  how,  in  his  Georgies,  he  took  from  the  Phenomena  of 
Aratus  the  signs  of  winter  and  summer  ? or  that  he  translated 
almost  word  for  word  from  Pisander  the  destruction  of  Troy, 
with  his  Sinon  and  wooden  horse  and  the  rest  ? For  he  is 
famous  among  Greek  poets  for  a work  in  which,  beginning  his 
universal  history  with  the  nuptials  of  Jupiter  and  Juno,  he 
collected  into  one  series  whatever  had  happened  in  all  ages,  to 
the  time  of  himself,  Pisander.  In  which  work  the  destruction 
of  Troy,  among  other  things,  is  related  in  the  same  way.  By 
faithfully  interpreting  these  things,  Maro  made  his  ruin  of 
Ilium.  But  these,  and  others  like  them,  I pass  over  as  familiar 
fro  every  schoolboy. 

Note  9,  p.  35. 

1 do  not  forget  that  a picture  mentioned  by  Eumolpus  in  Petro- 
nius  may  be  cited  in  contradiction  of  this.  It  represented  the 
destruction  of  Troy,  and  particularly  the  history  of  Laocoon 
exactly  as  narrated  by  Virgil.  And  since,  in  the  same  gallery 
at  Naples  were  other  old  pictures  by  Zeuxis,  Protogenes,  and 
Apelles,  it  was  inferred  that  this  was  also  an  old  Greek  pic- 
ture. But  permit  me  to  say  that  a novelist  is  no  historian. 
This  gallery  and  picture,  and  Eumolpus  himself,  apparently 
existed  only  in  the  imagination  of  Petronius.  That  the  whole 
was  fiction  appears  from  the  evident  traces  of  an  almost 


NOTES.  203 

ichoolboyish  imitation  of  Virgil.  Thus  Virgil  (Aineid  lib.  ii. 

199-224) : — 

Hie  aliud  majus  miseris  multoque  tremendum 
Objicitur  magis,  atque  improvida  pectora  turbat. 

Laocoon,  ductus  Neptuno  sorte  sacerdos, 

Solemnis  taurum  ingentem  mactabat  ad  aras. 

Ecce  autem  gemini  a Tenedo  tranquilla  per  alta 
(Horresco  referens)  immensis  orbibus  angues 
Incumbunt  pelago,  pariterque  ad  litora  tendunt : 

Pectora  quorum  inter  fluctus  arrecta,  jubaeque 
Sanguine®  exsuperant  undas  : pars  cetera  pontum 
Pone  legit,  sinuatque  immensa  volumine  terga. 

Fit  sonitus,  spumante  salo  : jamque  arva  tenebant, 

Ardentesque  oculos  suffecti  sanguine  et  igni 
Sibila  lambebant  linguis  vibrantibus  ora. 

Diffugimus  visu  exsangues.  Illi  agmine  certo 
Laocoonta  petunt,  et  primum  parva  duorum 
Corpora  natorum  serpens  amplexus  uterque 
Implicat,  et  miseros  morsu  depascitur  artus. 

Post  ipsum,  auxilio  subeuntem  ac  tela  ferentem, 

Corripiunt,  spirisque  ligant  ingentibus  ; et  jam 
Bis  medium  amplexi,  bis  collo  squamea  circum 
T erga  dati,  superant  capite  et  cervicibus  altis. 

Ille  simul  manibus  tendit  divellere  nodos, 

Perfusus  sanie  vittas  atroque  veneno  : 

Clamores  simul  horrendos  ad  sidera  tollit. 

Quales  mugitus,  fugit  cum  saucius  aram 
Taurus  et  incertam  excussit  cervice  securim. 

And  ‘lius  Eumolpus,  in  whose  lines,  as  is  usually  the  case 
with  improvisators,  memory  has  had  as  large  a ->hare  as  it  nag* 
ination : — 

Ecce  alia  monstra.  Celsa  qua  Tenedos  mar* 

Dorso  repellit,  tumida  consurgunt  freta, 

Undaque  resultat  scissa  tranquillo  minor. 

Qualis  silenti  nocte  remorum  sonus 
Longe  refertur,  cum  premunt  classes  mare, 

Pulsumque  marmor  abiete  imposita  gemit. 

Respicimus,  angues  orbibus  geminis  ferunt 
Ad  saxa  fluctus : tumida  quorum  pectora 
Rates  ut  alt®,  lateribus  spumas  agunt : 

Dat  cauda  sonitum  ; liber®  ponto  jubae 
Coruscant  luminibus,  fulmineum  jubar 


204 


NOTES. 


Incendit  aequor,  sibilisque  undse  tremunt: 

Stupuere  mentes.  Infulis  stabant  sacri 
Phrygioque  cultu  gemina  nati  pignora 
Laocoonte,  quos  repente  tergoribus  ligant 
Angues  corusci : parvulas  illi  manus 
Ad  ora  referunt : neuter  auxilio  sibi 
Uterque  fratri  transtulit  pias  vices, 

Morsque  ipsa  miseros  mutuo  perdit  metu. 

Accuraulat  ecce  liberum  funus  parens 

Infirmus  auxiliator  ; invadunt  virum 

Jam  morte  pasti,  membraque  ad  terram  trahunt. 

Jacet  sacerdos  inter  aras  victima. 

The  main  points  are  the  same  in  both,  and  in  many  places 
the  same  words  are  used.  But  those  are  trifles,  and  too 
evident  to  require  mention.  There  are  other  signs  of  imita- 
tion, more  subtle,  but  not  less  sure.  If  the  imitator  be  a man 
with  confidence  in  his  own  powers,  he  seldom  imitates  without 
trying  to  improve  upon  the  original ; and,  if  he  fancy  himself 
to  have  succeeded,  he  is  enough  of  a fox  to  brush  over  with 
nis  tail  the  footprints  which  might  betray  his  course.  But  he 
betrays  himself  by  this  very  vanity  of  wishing  to  introduce 
embellishments,  and  his  desire  to  appear  original.  For  his 
embellishments  are  nothing  but  exaggerations  and  excessive 
refinements.  Virgil  says,  “Sanguineaa  jubae”;  Petronius, 
“ liberae  jubae  luminibus  coruscant”;  Virgil,  “ardentes  oculos 
suffecti  sanguine  et  igni  ” ; Petronius,  “ fulmineum  jubar  incen- 
dit aequor.”  Virgil,  “ fit  sonitus  spumante  salo  ” ; Petronius, 
“sibilis  undae  tremunt.”  So  the  imitator  goes  on  exaggerating 
greatness  into  monstrosity,  wonders  into  impossibilities.  The 
boys  are  secondary  in  Virgil.  He  passes  them  over  with  a few 
insignificant  words,  indicative  simply  of  their  helplessness 
and  distress.  Petronius  makes  a great  point  of  them,  con- 
verting the  two  children  into  a couple  of  heroes. 

Neuter  auxilio  sibi 
Uterque  fratri  transtulit  pias  vices 
Morsque  ipsa  miseros  mutuo  perdit  metu. 

Who  expects  from  human  beings,  and  children  especiallv,  such 
self-sacrifice  ? The  Greek  understood  nature  better  (Quintus 


NOTES. 


205 


Calaber,  lib.  xil),  when  he  made  even  mothers  forget  their 
children  at  the  appearance  of  the  terrible  serpents,  so  intent 
was  every  one  on  securing  his  own  safety. 

. . . bfia  yvvaiKec 
Olfiutfiv,  Kal  7zov  tic  b>v  ene?LT]oaTO  tekvuv 
A i)T7j  ahevofievT]  Grvyspdv  /xopov  . . . 

The  usual  method  of  trying  to  conceal  an  imitation  is  to 
alter  the  shading,  bringing  forward  what  was  in  shadow,  and 
obscuring  what  was  in  relief.  Virgil  lays  great  stress  upon 
the  size  of  the  serpents,  because  the  probability  of  the  whole 
subsequent  scene  depends  upon  it.  The  noise  occasioned  by 
their  coming  is  a secondary  idea,  intended  to  make  more  vivid 
the  impression  of  their  size.  Petronius  raises  this  secondary 
idea  into  chief  prominence,  describing  the  noise  with  all  possi- 
ble wealth  of  diction,  and  so  far  forgetting  to  describe  the  size 
of  the  monsters  that  we  are  almost  left  to  infer  it  from  the  noise 
they  make.  He  hardly  would  have  fallen  into  this  error,  had 
he  been  drawing  solely  from  his  imagination,  with  no  model 
before  him  which  he  wished  to  imitate  without  the  appearance 
of  imitation.  We  can  always  recognize  a poetic  picture  as  an 
unsuccessful  imitation  when  we  find  minor  details  exaggerated 
and  important  ones  neglected,  however  many  incidental  beau- 
ties the  poem  may  possess,  and  however  difficult,  or  even, 
impossible,  it  may  be  to  discover  the  original. 

Note  10,  p.  36. 

Suppl.  aux  Antiq.  Expl.  T.  i.  p.  243.  II  y a quelque  petite 
difference  entre  ce  que  dit  Virgile,  et  ce  que  le  marbre  repre- 
sente. II  semble,  selon  ce  que  dit  le  poete,  que  les  serpens  quit- 
terent  les  deux  enfans  pour  venir  entortiller  le  pere,  au  lieu 
que  dans  ce  marbre  ils  lient  en  meme  temps  les  enfans  et  leur 
p£re. 

Note  ii,  p.  37. 

Donatus  ad  v.  227,  lib.  ii.  ALneid.  Mirandum  non  est,  clypeo 
et  simulacri  vestigiis  tegi  potuisse,  quos  supra  et  lorgos  ef 


20  6 


NOTES. 


validos  dixit,  et  multiplici  ambitu  circumdedisse  Laocoontis 
corpus  ac  liberorum,  et  fuisse  superfluam  partem.  The  “ non  ” 
in  the  clause  “mirandum  non  est,”  should,  it  seems  to  me,  be 
omitted,  unless  we  suppose  the  concluding  part  of  the  sentence 
to  be  missing.  For,  since  the  serpents  were  of  such  extraor- 
dinary length,  it  would  certainly  be  surprising  that  they  could 
be  concealed  beneath  the  goddess’s  shield,  unless  this  also 
were  of  great  length,  and  belonged  to  a colossal  figure.  The 
assurance  that  this  was  actually  the  case  must  have  been 
meant  to  follow,  or  the  “non”  has  no  meaning. 

Note  12,  p.  39. 

In  the  handsome  edition  of  Dryden’s  Virgil  (London,  1697). 
Yet  here  the  serpents  are  wound  but  once  about  the  body,  and 
hardly  at  all  about  the  neck.  So  indifferent  an  artist  scarcely 
deserves  an  excuse,  but  the  only  one  that  could  be  made  for 
him  would  be  that  prints  are  merely  illustrations,  and  by  no 
means  to  be  regarded  as  independent  works  of  art. 

Note  13,  p.  40. 

This  is  the  judgment  of  De  Piles  in  his  remarks  upon  Du 
Fresnoy : “Remarquez,  s’il  vous  plait,  que  les  draperies  ten- 
dres  et  legeres,  n’etant  donnees  qu’au  sexe  feminin,  les  anciena 
sculpteurs  ont  evite  autant  qu’ils  ont  pu,  d’habiller  les  figures 
d’hommes ; parce  qu’ils  ont  pense,  comme  nous  l’avons  dej£ 
dit  qu’en  sculpture  on  ne  pouvait  imiter  les  etoffes,  et  que  les 
gros  plis  faisaient  un  mauvais  effet.  II  y a presque  autant 
d’exemples  de  cette  verite,  qu’il  y a parmi  les  antiques,  de 
figures  d’hommes  nuds.  Je  rapporterai  seulement  celui  du 
Laocoon,  lequel,  selon  la  vraisemblance,  devrait  etre  vetu. 
En  effet,  quelle  apparence  y a-t-il  qu’un  fils  de  roi,  qu’un 
pretre  d’Apollon,  se  trouvat  tout  nud  dans  la  ceremonie 
actuelle  d’un  sacrifice  ? car  les  serpens  passerent  de  l’ile  de 
Tenedos  au  rivage  de  Troye,  et  surprirent  Laocoon  et  ses  fils 
dans  le  temps  meme  qu’il  sacrifiait  a Neptune  sur  le  bord  de 
la  mer,  comme  le  marque  Virgile  dans  le  second  livre  de  son 
Eneide.  Cependant  les  artistes  qui  sont  les  auteurs  de  ce  beJ 


NOTES. 


207 


ouvrage,  ont  bien  vu  qu’ils  ne  pouvaient  pas  leur  dormer  de 
vetements  convenables  £ leur  qualite,  sans  faire  comme  un 
amas  de  pierres,  dont  la  masse  ressemblerait  & un  rocher,  au 
lieu  des  trois  admirables  figures,  qui  ont  ete,  et  qui  sont  tou- 
jours,  l’admiration  des  si£cles.  C’est  pour  cela  que  de  deux 
inconveniens,  ils  ont  juge  celui  des  draperies  beaucoup  plus 
facheux,  que  celui  d’aller  contre  la  verite  meme. 

Note  14,  p.  42. 

Maffel,  Richardson,  and,  more  recently,  Herr  Von  Hage* 
dorn.  (Betrachtungen  fiber  die  Malerei,  p.  37.  Richardson, 
Traite  de  la  Peinture,  vol.  iii.)  De  Fontaines  does  not  merit 
being  reckoned  in  the  same  class  with  these  scholars.  In  the 
notes  to  his  translation  of  Virgil,  he  maintains,  indeed,  that 
the  poet  had  the  group  in  mind,  but  he  is  so  ignorant  as  to 
ascribe  it  to  Phidias. 


Note  15,  p.  44. 

I can  adduce  no  better  argument  in  support  of  my  view  than 
this  poem  of  Sadolet.  It  is  worthy  of  one  of  the  old  poets, 
and,  since  it  may  well  take  the  place  of  an  engraving,  I ven« 
ture  to  introduce  it  here  entire. 

DE  LAOCOONTIS  STATUA  JACOBI  SADOLETI  CARMEN. 

Ecce  alto  terras  e cumulo,  ingentisque  ruinas 
Visceribus,  iterum  reducem  longinqua  reduxit 
Laocoonta  dies  ; aulis  regalibus  olim 
Qui  stetit,  atque  tuos  ornabat,  Tite,  Penates. 

Divinse  simulacrum  artw,  nec  docta  vetustas 
Nobilius  spectabat  opus,  nunc  celsa  revisit 
Exemptum  tenebris  redivivas  moenia  Romas. 

Quid  primum  summumque  loquar?  miserumne  parentem 
Et  prolem  geminam  ? an  sinuatos  flexibus  angues 
Terribili  aspectu  ? caudasque  irasque  draconum 
Vulneraque  et  veros,  saxo  moriente,  dolores? 

Horret  ad  hasc  animus,  mutaque  ab  imagine  pulsat 
Pectora,  non  parvo  pietas  commixta  tremori. 

Prolixum  bini  spiris  glomerantur  in  orbem 
Ardentes  colubri,  et  sinuosis  orbibus  errant, 


20 8 


NOTES. 


Ternaque  multiplici  constringunt  corpora  nexa. 

Vix  oculi  sufferre  valent,  crudele  tuendo 
Exitium,  casusque  feros : micat  alter,  et  ipsum 
Laocoonta  petit,  totumque  infraque  supraque 
Iraplicat  et  rabido  tandem  ferit  ilia  morsu. 

Connexum  refugit  corpus,  torquentia  sese 
Membra,  latusque  retro  sinuatum  a vulnere  cemaa. 

Ille  dolore  acri,  et  laniatu  impulsus  acerbo, 

Dat  gemitum  ingentem,  crudosque  evellere  dentes 
Connixus,  laevam  impatiens  ad  terga  Chelydri 
Objicit : intendunt  nervi,  collectaque  ab  omni 
Corpore  vis  frustra  summis  conatibus  instat. 

F erre  nequit  rabiem,  et  de  vulnere  murmur  anhelum  eat. 
At  serpens  lapsu  crebro  redeunte  subintrat 
Lubricus,  intortoque  ligat  genua  infima  nodo. 

Absistunt  suraj,  spirisque  prementibus  arctum 
Crus  tumet,  obsepto  turgent  vitalia  pulsu, 

Liventesque  atro  distendunt  sanguine  venas. 

Nec  minus  in  natos  eadem  vis  effera  s$vit 
Implexuque  angit  rapido,  miserandaque  membra 
Dilacerat : jamque  alterius  depasta  cruentum 
Pectus,  suprema  genitorem  voce  cientis, 

Circumjectu  orbis,  validoque  volumine  fulcit. 

Alter  adhuc  nullo  violatus  corpora  morsu, 

Dum  parat  adducta  caudam  divellere  planta, 

Horret  ad  aspectum  miseri  patris,  haeret  in  illo, 

Et  jam  jam  ingentes  fletus,  lachrymasque  cadentes 
Anceps  in  dubio  retinet  timor.  Ergo  perenni 
Qui  tantum  statuistis  opus  jam  laude  nitentes. 

Artifices  magni  (quanquam  et  melioribus  actis 
Quaeritur  aetemum  nomen,  multoque  licebat 
Clarius  ingenium  venturae  tradere  famae) 

Attamen  ad  laudem  qusecunque  oblata  facultas 
Egregium  hanc  rapere,  et  summa  ad  fastigia  niti 
Vos  rigidum  lapidem  vivis  animare  figuris 
Eximii,  et  vivos  spiranti  in  marmore  sensus 
Inserere,  aspicimus  motumque  iramque  doloremqae^ 

Et  pene  audimus  gemitus  ; vos  extulit  olim 
Clara  Rhodos,  vestras  jacuerunt  artis  honores 
Tempore  ab  immenso,  quos  rursum  in  luce  secunda 
Roma  videt,  celebratque  frequens : operisque  vetuitj 
Gratia  parta  recens.  Quanto  praestantius  ergo  est 
Ingenio,  aut  quovis  extendere  fata  labore, 

Quam  fastus  et  open  et  inanem  extendere  luxum. 


NOTES. 


209 


LAOCOON,  BY  JAMES  SADOLET. 

So,  from  the  depths  of  earth  and  the  bowels  of  mighty  ruins,  the  long* 
iiferred  day  has  brought  back  the  returning  Laocoon,  who  stood  of  old  in  thy 
royal  halls  and  graced  thy  penates,  Titus.  The  image  of  divine  art,  a work 
as  noble  as  any  produced  by  the  learning  of  antiquity,  now  freed  from  dark- 
ness, beholds  again  the  lofty  walls  of  renovated  Rome.  With  what  part  shall 
I begin  as  the  greatest?  the  unhappy  father  and  his  two  sons?  the  sinuous 
coils  of  the  terrible  serpents?  the  tails  and  the  fierceness  of  the  dragons?  the 
wounds  and  real  pains  of  the  dying  stone?  These  chill  the  mind  with  horror, 
and  pity,  mingled  with  no  slight  fear,  drives  our  hearts  back  from  the  dumb 
image.  Two  gleaming  snakes  cover  a vast  space  with  their  gathered  coils, 
and  move  in  sinuous  rings,  and  hold  three  bodies  bound  in  a many-twisted 
knot.  Eyes  scarce  can  bear  to  behold  the  cruel  death  and  fierce  sufferings. 
One  gleaming  seeks  Laocoon  himself,  winding  him  all  about,  above,  below, 
and  attacks  his  groins  at  last  with  poisonous  bite.  The  imprisoned  body 
recoils,  and  you  see  the  limbs  writhe  and  the  side  shrink  back  from  the  wound. 
Forced  by  the  sharp  pain  and  bitter  anguish,  he  groans;  and,  trying  to  tear 
out  the  cruel  teeth,  throws  his  left  hand  upon  the  serpent’s  back.  The 
nerves  strain,  and  the  whole  body  in  vain  collects  its  strength  for  the  supreme 
effort.  He  cannot  endure  the  fierce  torture,  and  pants  from  the  wound.  But 
the  slippery  snake  glides  down  with  frequent  folds,  and  binds  his  leg  below  the 
knee  with  twisted  knot.  The  calves  fall  in,  the  tight-bound  leg  swells  betweer. 
the  pressing  coils,  and  the  vitals  grow  tumid  from  the  stopping  of  the  pulses, 
and  black  blood  distends  the  livid  veins.  The  same  cruel  violence  attacks  the 
children  no  less  fiercely,  tortures  them  with  many  encircling  folds,  and  lacer- 
ates their  suffering  limbs.  Now  satiated  upon  the  bloody  breast  of  one,  who, 
with  his  last  breath,  calls  upon  his  father,  the  serpent  supports  the  lifeless 
body  with  the  mighty  circles  thrown  around  it.  The  other,  whose  body  has  as 
yet  been  hurt  by  no  sting,  while  preparing  to  pluck  out  the  tail  from  his  foot, 
is  filled  with  horror  at  sight  of  his  wretched  father,  and  clings  to  him.  A 
double  fear  restrains  his  great  sobs  and  falling  tears.  Therefore  ye  enjoy  per- 
petual fame,  ye  great  artificers  who  made  the  mighty  work,  although  an 
immortal  name  may  be  sought  by  better  deeds,  and  nobler  talents  may  be 
handed  down  to  future  fame.  Yet  any  power  employed  to  snatch  this  praise 
and  reach  the  heights  of  fame  is  excellent.  Ye  have  excelled  in  animating  the 
rigid  stone  with  living  forms,  and  inserting  living  senses  within  the  breathing 
marble.  We  see  the  movement,  the  wrath  and  pain,  and  almost  hear  the 
groans.  Illustrious  Rhodes  begot  you  of  old.  Long  the  glories  of  your  art 
lay  hid,  but  Rome  beholds  them  again  in  a second  dawn,  and  celebrates  them 
with  many  voices,  in  fresh  acknowledgment  of  the  old  labor.  How  much  nobler, 
then,  to  extend  our  fates  by  art  or  toil  than  to  swell  pride  and  wealth  and 
empty  luxury. 


(Leodegarii  a Quercu  Farrago  Poematum,  T.  ii.)  Gruter  has 

14 


210 


NOTES. 


introduced  this  poem  with  another  one  of  Sadolet  into  his 
well-known  collection,  but  with  many  errors.  (Delic.  Poet. 
Italorum.  Parte  alt.) 

Note  16,  p.  45. 

De  la  Peinture,  tome  iii.  p.  516.  C’est  l’horreur  que  les 
Troi'ens  ont  congue  contre  Laocoon,  qui  etait  necessaire  a Vir- 
gile  pour  la  conduite  de  son  poeme ; et  cela  le  mene  k cette 
description  pathetique  de  la  destruction  de  la  patrie  de  son 
heros.  Aussi  Virgile  n’avait  garde  de  diviser  l’attention  sur  la 
derniere  nuit,  pour  une  grand  ville  entiere,  par  la  peinture  d’un 
petit  malheur  d’un  particulier. 

Note  17,  p.  51. 

I SAY  it  is  possible,  but  I would  wager  ten  against  one  that  It 
is  not  so.  Juvenal  is  speaking  of  the  early  days  of  the 
republic,  when  splendor  and  luxury  were  yet  unknown,  and 
the  soldier  put  whatever  gold  and  silver  he  got  as  booty  upon 
his  arms  and  the  caparisons  of  his  horse.  (Sat.  xi.) 

Tunc  rudis  et  Gra]as  mirari  nescius  artes 
Urbibus  eversis  praedarum  in  parte  reperta 
Magnorum  artificum  frangebat  pocula  miles. 

Ut  phaleris  gauderet  equus,  cadataque  cassis 
Romuleze  simulacra  ferae  mansuescere  jussae 
Imperii  fato,  geminos  sub  rupe  Quirinos, 

Ac  nudam  effigiem  clypeo  fulgentis  et  hasta, 

Pendentisque  Dei  perituro  ostenderet  hosti. 

Tke  soldier  broke  up  the  precious  cups,  the  masterpieces 
of  great  artists,  to  make  a she-wolf,  a little  Romulus  and 
Remus  to  deck  his  helmet  with.  All  is  plain  down  to  the 
last  two  lines,  where  the  poet  proceeds  to  describe  such  a 
figure  on  the  helmets  of  the  old  soldiers.  The  figure  is  meant 
for  the  god  Mars,  but  what  can  the  term  pende-atis  mean  as 
applied  to  him  ? Rigaltius  found  in  an  old  gloss  the  interpre- 
tation “ quasi  ad  ictum  se  inclinantis.”  Lubinus  supposes  the 
figure  to  have  been  on  the  shield,  and,  as  the  shield  hung 
from  the  arm,  the  figure  might  be  spoken  of  as  hanging.  But 
this  is  contrary  to  the  construction,  the  subject  of  “ ostenderet  ” 


NOTES. 


2 1 1 


being  not  “miles”  but  “cassis.”  According  to  Britannicus, 
whatever  stands  high  in  the  air  may  be  said  to  hang,  and  the 
expression  may  be  used  of  this  figure  perched  above  or  upon 
the  helmet.  Some  would  read  “ perdentis  ” as  a contrast  to  the 
following  “ perituro,”  though  none  but  themselves  would  think 
the  contrast  desirable.  What  does  Addison  say  to  this  doubt- 
ful passage  ? He  thinks  all  the  commentators  are  wrong  and 
maintains  this  to  be  the  true  meaning.  “The  Roman  soldiers, 
who  were  not  a little  proud  of  their  founder  and  the  military 
genius  of  their  republic,  used  to  bear  on  their  helmets  the  first 
history  of  Romulus,  who  was  begot  by  the  god  of  war  and 
suckled  by  a wolf.  The  figure  of  the  god  was  made  as  if 
descending  upon  the  priestess  Ilia,  or,  as  others  call  her,  Rhea 
Silvia.  As  he  was  represented  descending,  his  figure  appeared 
suspended  in  the  air  over  the  vestal  virgin,  in  which  sense  the 
word  ‘pendentis’  is  extremely  proper  and  poetical.  Besides 
the  antique  basso-rilievo  (in  Bellori)  that  made  me  first  think 
of  this  interpretation,  I have  since  met  with  the  same  figures 
on  the  reverses  of  a couple  of  ancient  coins,  which  were 
stamped  in  the  reign  of  Antoninus  Pius.”  (Addison’s  Travels, 
Rome,  Tonson’s  edition,  1745,  p.  183.) 

Since  Spence  considers  this  such  a happy  discovery  on  the 
part  of  Addison,  that  he  quotes  it  as  a model  of  its  kind  and 
as  the  strongest  proof  of  the  value  of  the  works  of  the  old 
artists  in  throwing  light  on  the  classic  Roman  poets,  I cannot 
refrain  from  a closer  examination  of  it.  (Polymetis,  dial,  vii.) 
I must  observe,  in  the  first  place,  that  the  bas-relief  and  the 
coin  would  hardly  have  recalled  to  Addison  the  passage  from 
Juvenal,  had  he  not  remembered  reading  in  the  old  scholiast, 
who  substituted  “ venientis  ” for  “fulgentis”  in  the  last  line 
but  one,  this  interpretation  : “ Martis  ad  Iliam  venientis  ut 
concumberet.”  Now,  instead  of  this  reading  of  the  old 
scholiast,  let  us  accept  Addison’s,  and  see  if  we  have  then  the 
slightest  reason  for  supposing  the  poet  to  have  had  Rhea  in 
mind.  Would  it  not  rather  be  a complete  inversion  on  his 
part,  where  he  is  speaking  of  the  wolf  and  the  boys,  to  b« 
thinking  of  the  adventure  to  which  the  children  owe  thcif 


212 


NOTES. 


life  ? Rhea  has  not  yet  become  a mother,  and  the  boys  are 
already  lying  under  the  rock.  Would  an  hour  of  dalliance  be 
a fitting  emblem  for  the  helmet  of  a Roman  soldier  ? The 
soldier  was  proud  of  the  divine  origin  of  the  founder  of  his 
country,  and  that  was  sufficiently  typified  by  the  wolf  and  the 
children.  What  need  of  introducing  Mars  at  a moment  when 
he  was  any  thing  but  the  dread-inspiring  god  ? His  visit  to 
Rhea  may  have  been  represented  on  any  number  of  old  mar- 
bles and  coins  : did  that  make  it  a fitting  ornament  for  armor  ? 
What  are  the  marbles  and  coins  on  which  Addison  saw  Mars 
in  this  hovering  attitude  ? The  old  bas-relief  to  which  he 
appeals  is  said  to  be  in  Bellori,  but  we  shall  look  for  it  in  vain 
in  the  Admiranda,  his  collection  of  finest  old  bas-reliefs.  Spence 
cannot  have  found  it  there  or  elsewhere,  for  he  makes  no  men- 
tion of  it.  Nothing  remains,  therefore,  but  the  coins,  which 
we  will  study  from  Addison  himself.  I see  a recumbent 
figure  of  Rhea,  and  Mars  standing  on  a somewhat  higher 
plane,  because  there  was  not  room  for  him  on  the  same  level. 
That  is  all : there  is  no  sign  of  his  being  suspended.  Such  an 
effect  is  produced  very  strongly,  it  is  true,  in  Spence’s  copy. 
The  upper  part  of  the  figure  is  thrown  so  far  forward  as  to 
make  standing  impossible  ; so  that  if  the  body  be  not  falling, 
it  must  be  hovering.  Spence  says  this  coin  is  in  his  posses- 
sion. It  is  hard  to  question  a man’s  veracity,  even  in  a trifle, 
but  our  eyes  are  often  greatly  influenced  by  a preconceived 
opinion.  He  may,  besides,  have  thought  it  allowable  for  the 
good  of  the  reader  to  have  the  artist  so  emphasize  the  expres- 
sion which  he  thought  he  saw,  that  as  little  doubt  might 
remain  on  our  mind  as  on  his.  One  thing  is  plain : that 
Spence  and  Addison  refer  to  the  same  coin,  which  is  either 
very  much  misrepresented  by  one  or  embellished  by  the  other. 
But  I have  another  objection  to  make  to  this  supposed  hover- 
ing attitude  of  Mars.  A body  thus  suspended,  without  any 
visible  cause  for  the  law  of  gravitation  not  acting  upon  it,  is 
an  absurdity  of  which  no  example  can  be  found  in  the  old 
works  of  art.  It  is  not  allowable  even  in  modern  painting. 
If  a body  is  to  be  suspended  in  the  air,  it  must  either  have 


NOTES. 


213 


wings  or  appear  to  rest  upon  something,  if  only  a cloud. 
Wher.  Homer  makes  Thetis  rise  on  foot  from  the  sea-shore  to 
Olympus,  T fjv  ph>  up * OiXvpndvde  nodes  (pepov  (Iliad,  xviii.  148), 
Count  Caylus  is  too  well  aware  of  the  limitations  of  art  to 
counsel  the  painter  to  represent  her  as  walking  unsupported 
through  the  air.  She  must  pursue  her  way  upon  a cloud 
(Tableaux  tires  de  Plliade,  p.  91),  as  in  another  place  he  puts 
her  into  a chariot  (p.  131),  although  exactly  the  opposite  is 
stated  by  the  poet.  How  can  it  be  otherwise  ? Although  the 
poet  represents  the  goddess  with  a human  body,  he  yet  removes 
from  her  every  trace  of  coarse  and  heavy  materiality,  and 
animates  her  with  a power  which  raises  her  beyond  the  influ- 
ence of  our  laws  of  motion.  How  could  painting  so  distin- 
guish the  bodily  shape  of  a deity  from  the  bodily  shape  of  a 
human  being,  that  our  eyes  should  not  be  offended  by  observ- 
ing it  acted  upon  by  different  laws  of  motion,  weight,  and 
equilibrium  ? How  but  by  conventional  signs,  such  as  a pair 
of  wings  or  a cloud  ? But  more  of  this  elsewhere  ; here  it  is 
enough  to  require  the  defenders  of  the  Addison  theory  to 
show  on  the  old  monuments  a second  figure  floating  thus 
unsupported  in  the  air.  Can  this  Mars  be  the  only  one  of  its 
kind?  why?  Were  there  some  particular  conditions  handed 
down  by  tradition  which  would  necessitate  such  exceptional 
treatment  in  this  one  case  ? There  is  no  trace  of  such  in  Ovid 
(Fast.  lib.  i.),  but  rather  proof  that  no  such  conditions  ever 
could  have  existed.  For  in  other  ancient  works  of  art  which 
represent  the  same  story,  Mars  is  evidently  not  hovering,  but 
walking.  Examine  the  bas-relief  in  Montfaucon  (Suppl.  T.  i.  p. 
183),  which  is  to  be  found,  if  I am  not  mistaken,  in  the  Mel- 
lini  palace  at  Rome.  Rhea  lies  asleep  under  a tree,  and  Mars 
approaches  her  softly,  with  that  expressive  backward  motion 
of  the  right  hand  by  which  we  warn  those  behind  to  stay 
where  they  are,  or  to  advance  gently.  His  attitude  is  pre- 
cisely the  same  as  on  the  coin,  except  that  in  one  case  he  holds 
his  lance  in  the  right,  in  the  other  in  the  left  hand.  We  often 
find  famous  statues  and  bas-reliefs  copied  on  coins,  and  the 
same  may  well  be  the  case  here,  only  that  the  cutter  of  th« 


214 


NOTES. 


die  did  not  perceive  the  force  of  the  backward  motion  of  the 
hand,  and  thought  it  better  employed  in  holding  the  lance. 
Taking  all  these  arguments  into  consideration,  what  degree  of 
probability  remains  to  Addison’s  theory  ? Hardly  more  than 
a bare  possibility.  But  where  can  better  explanation  be  had  if 
this  fails  ? Possibly  among  the  interpretations  rejected  by 
Addison.  But  if  not,  what  then  ? The  passage  in  the  poet  is 
corrupted,  and  so  it  must  remain.  It  certainly  will  so  remain, 
if  twenty  new  conjectures  are  invented.  We  might  say  that 
“ pendentis  ” here  was  to  be  taken  figuratively  in  the  sense  of 
uncertain,  undecided.  Mars  “ pendens  ” would  then  be  the 
same  as  Mars  “incertus”  or  Mars  “communis.”  “Dii  com- 
munes,” says  Servius  (ad.  v.  118,  lib.  xii.  ALneid),  are  Mars, 
Bellona,  and  Victory,  so  called  from  their  favoring  both  parties 
in  war.  And  the  line,  — 

Pendentisque  Dei  (effigiem)  perituro  ostenderet  hosti, 
would  mean  that  the  old  Roman  soldier  was  accustomed  to 
wear  the  image  of  the  impartial  god  in  the  presence  of  his 
enemy,  who,  in  spite  of  the  impartiality,  was  soon  to  perish. 
A very  subtle  idea,  making  the  victories  of  the  old  Romans 
depend  more  upon  their  own  bravery  than  on  the  friendly  aid 
of  their  founder.  Nevertheless,  “non  liquet.” 

Note  18,  p.  51. 

u Till  I got  acquainted  with  these  Aurae  (or  sylphs),”  says 
Spence  (Polymetis,  dial,  xiii.),  “I  found  myself  always  at  a 
loss  in  reading  the  known  story  of  Cephalus  and  Procris  in 
Ovid.  I could  never  imagine  how  Cephalus  crying  out,  ‘ Aura 
venias  ’ (though  in  ever  so  languishing  a manner),  could  give 
anybody  a suspicion  of  his  being  false  to  Procris.  As  I had 
been  always  used  to  think  that  Aura  signified  only  the  air  in 
general,  or  a gentle  breeze  in  particular,  I thought  Procris  s 
jealousy  less  founded  than  the  most  extravagant  jealousies 
generally  are.  But  when  I had  once  found  that  Aura  might 
signify  a very  handsome  young  woman  as  well  as  the  air,  the 
case  was  entirely  altered,  and  the  story  seemed  to  go  on  in  a 
very  reasonable  manner.”  I will  not  take  back  in  the  note  the 


NOTES. 


215 


approval  bestowed  in  the  text  on  this  discovery,  on  which 
Spence  so  plumes  himself.  But  I cannot  refrain  from  remark- 
ing that,  even  without  it,  the  passage  was  very  natural  and 
intelligible.  We  only  needed  to  know  that  Aura  occurs  fre- 
quently among  the  ancients  as  a woman’s  name.  According  to 
Nonnus,  for  instance  (Dionys.  lib.  xlviii.),  the  nymph  of  Diana 
was  thus  named,  who,  for  claiming  to  possess  a more  manly 
beauty  than  the  goddess  herself,  was,  as  a punishment  for  her 
presumption,  exposed  in  her  sleep  to  the  embraces  of  Bacchus. 

Note  19,  p.  52. 

Juvenalis  Satyr,  viii.  v.  52-55. 

. . . Attu 

Nil  nisi  Cecropides  ; truncoque  simillimus  Hermael 
Nullo  quippe  alio  vincis  discrimine,  quam  quod 
Uli  marmoreum  caput  est,  tua  vivit  imago. 

“ But  thou  art  nothing  if  not  a descendant  of  Cecrops ; in 
body  most  like  a Hermes ; forsooth  the  only  thing  in  which 
you  surpass  that,  is  that  your  head  is  a living  image,  while  the 
Hermes  is  marble.”  If  Spence  had  embraced  the  old  Greek 
writers  in  his  work,  a fable  of  A£sop  might  perhaps  — and  yet 
perhaps  not  — have  occurred  to  him,  which  throws  still  clearer 
light  upon  this  passage  in  Juvenal.  “ Mercury,”  ALsop  tells  us, 
“wishing  to  know  in  what  repute  he  stood  among  men,  con- 
cealed his  divinity,  and  entered  a sculptor’s  studio.  Here  he 
beheld  a statue  of  Jupiter,  and  asked  its  value.  ‘A  drachm,’ 
was  the  answer.  Mercury  smiled.  ‘And  this  Juno?’  he 
asked  again.  ‘About  the  same.’  The  god  meanwhile  had 
caught  sight  of  his  own  image,  and  thought  to  himself,  — ‘ I, 
as  the  messenger  of  the  gods,  from  whom  come  all  gains,  must 
be  much  more  highly  prized  by  men.’  ‘And  this  god,’  he 
asked,  pointing  to  his  own  image,  ‘ how  dear  might  that  be  ? * 
‘That?’  replied  the  artist,  ‘buy  the  other  two,  and  I will 
throw  that  in.’  ” Mercury  went  away  sadly  crestfallen.  But 
the  artist  did  not  recognize  him,  and  could  therefore  have  had 
no  intention  of  wounding  his  self-love.  The  reason  for  his  set  ■ 
ting  so  small  a value  on  the  statue  must  have  lain  in  its  work' 


21 6 


NOTES. 


manship.  The  less  degree  of  reverence  due  to  the  god  whom 
it  represented  could  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  matter, 
for  the  artist  values  his  works  according  to  the  skill,  industry, 
and  labor  bestowed  upon  them,  not  according  to  the  rank  and 
dignity  of  the  persons  represented.  If  a statue  of  Mercury 
cost  less  than  one  of  Jupiter  or  Juno,  it  was  because  less 
skill,  industry,  and  labor  had  been  expended  upon  it.  And 
such  was  the  case  here.  The  statues  of  Jupiter  and  Juno 
were  full-length  figures,  while  that  of  Mercury  was  a miserable 
square  post,  with  only  the  head  and  shoulders  of  the  god  upon 
it.  What  wonder,  then,  that  it  might  be  thrown  in  without 
extra  charge  ? Mercury  overlooked  this  circumstance,  from 
having  in  mind  only  his  own  fancied  superiority,  and  his 
humiliation  was  therefore  as  natural  as  it  was  merited.  We 
look  in  vain  among  the  commentators,  translators,  and  imita- 
tors of  .dLsop’s  fables  for  any  trace  of  this  explanation.  I 
could  mention  the  names  of  many,  were  it  worth  the  trouble, 
who  have  understood  the  story  literally ; that  is,  have  not 
understood  it  at  all.  On  the  supposition  that  the  workman- 
ship of  all  the  statues  was  of  the  same  degree  of  excellence, 
there  is  an  absurdity  in  the  fable  which  these  scholars  have 
either  failed  to  perceive  or  have  very  much  exaggerated. 
Another  point  which,  perhaps,  might  be  taken  exception  to  in 
the  fable,  is  the  price  the  sculptor  sets  upon  his  Jupiter.  No 
potter  can  make  a puppet  for  a drachm.  The  drachm  here 
must  stand  in  general  for  something  very  insignificant.  (Fab. 
^Esop,  90.) 

Note  20,  p.  53. 

Lucretius  de  R.  N.  lib.  v.  736-747. 

It  Ver,  et  Venus,  et  Veneris  prasnuntius  ante 
Pinnatus  graditur  Zephyrus ; vestigia  propter 
Flora  quibus  mater  praespargens  ante  viai 
Cuncta  coloribus  egregiis  et  odoribus  opplet, 

Inde  loci  sequitur  Calor  aridus,  et  comes  una 
Pulverulenta  Ceres ; et  Etesia  flabra  Aquilonum. 

Inde  Autumnus  adit;  graditur  simul  Evius  Evan; 

Inde  alias  tempestates  ventique  sequuntur, 

Altitonans  Vulturous  et  Auster  fulriine  pollens. 


NOTES. 


217 


Tandem  Bruma  nives  adfert,  pigrumque  rigorem 
Reddit,  Hyems  sequitur,  crepitans  ac  dentibus  Algus. 

Spring  advances  and  Venus  and  winged  Zephyrus,  the  herald 
of  Venus,  precedes,  whose  path  mother  Flora  fills  with  won- 
drous flowers  and  odors.  Then  follow  in  order  dry  Heat  and 
his  companion  dusty  Ceres,  and  the  Etesian  blasts  of  the 
Northwind.  Then  Autumn  approaches,  and  Evian  Bacchus. 
Then  other  tempests  and  winds,  deep-thundering  Volturnus 
and  Auster  (south  and  south-east  winds),  mighty  with  light- 
nings. At  length,  the  solstice  brings  snow,  and  slothful  numb- 
ness returns  ; Winter  follows,  and  cold  with  chattering  teeth. 

Spence  regards  this  passage  as  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in 
the  whole  poem,  and  it  is  certainly  one  on  which  the  fame  of 
Lucretius  as  a poet  chiefly  rests.  But,  surely,  to  say  that  the 
whole  description  was  probably  taken  from  a procession  of 
statues  representing  the  seasons  as  gods,  is  to  detract  very  much 
from  his  merit,  if  not  to  destroy  it  altogether.  And  what  rea- 
son have  we  for  the  supposition  ? This,  says  the  English- 
man : “ Such  processions  of  their  deities  in  general  were  as 
common  among  the  Romans  of  old,  as  those  in  honor  of  the 
saints  are  in  the  same  country  to  this  day.  All  the  expres- 
sions used  by  Lucretius  here  come  in  very  aptly,  if  applied  to 
a procession.” 

Excellent  reasons  ! Against  the  last,  particularly,  we  might 
make  many  objections.  The  very  epithets  applied  to  the  various 
personified  abstractions,- — “Calor  aridus,”  “Ceres  pulveru- 
lenta,”  “Volturnus  altitonans,”  “fulmine  pollens  Auster,” 
“Algus  dentibus  crepitans,”  — show  that  they  received  their 
characteristics  from  the  poet  and  not  from  the  artist.  He 
would  certainly  have  treated  them  very  differently.  Spence 
seems  to  have  derived  his  idea  of  a procession  from  Abraham 
Preigern,  who,  in  his  remarks  on  this  passage,  says,  “Ordo 
est  quasi  Pompae  cujusdam.  Ver  et  Venus,  Zephyrus  et 
Flora,”  &c.  But  Spence  should  have  been  content  to  stop 
there.  To  say  that  the  poet  makes  his  seasons  move  as  in  a 
procession,  is  all  very  well ; but  to  say  that  he  learned  theif 
sequences  from  a procession,  is  nonsense. 


2 18 


NOTES. 


Note  21,  p.  62. 

Valerius  Flaccus,  lib.  ii.  Argonaut,  v.  265-273. 

Serta  patri,  juvenisque  comam  vestisque  Lyaei 
Induit,  et  medium  curru  locat ; aeraque  circum 
Tympanaque  et  plenas  tacita  formidine  cistas. 

Ipsa  sinus  hederisque  ligat  famularibus  artus  ; 

Pampineamque  quatit  ventosis  ictibus  hastam, 

Respiciens ; teneat  virides  velatus  habenas 
Ut  pater,  et  nivea  tumeant  ut  cornua  mitra, 

Et  sacer  ut  Bacchum  referat  scyphus. 

“ The  maid  clothes  her  father  with  the  garlands,  the  lock! 
and  the  garments  of  Bacchus,  and  places  him  in  the  centre  of 
the  chariot ; around  him  the  brazen  drums  and  the  boxes  filled 
with  nameless  terror;  herself,  looking  back,  binds  his  hair 
and  limbs  with  ivy  and  strikes  windy  blows  with  the  vine- 
wreathed  spear ; veiled  like  the  father  she  holds  the  green 
reins ; the  horns  project  under  the  white  turban,  and  the 
sacred  goblet  tells  of  Bacchus.” 

The  word  “tumeant,”  in  the  last  line  but  one,  would  seem  to 
imply  that  the  horns  were  not  so  small  as  Spence  fancies. 

Note  22,  p.  62. 

The  so-called  Bacchus  in  the  garden  of  the  Medicis  at  Rome 
(Montfaucon  Suppl.  aux  Ant.  T.  1,  p.  254)  has  little  horns 
growing  from  the  brow.  But  for  this  very  reason  some  critics 
suppose  it  to  be  a faun.  And  indeed  such  natural  horns  are 
an  insult  to  the  human  countenance,  and  can  only  be  becoming 
in  beings  supposed  to  occupy  a middle  station  between  men 
and  beasts.  The  attitude  also  and  the  longing  looks  the  figure 
casts  upward  at  the  grapes,  belong  more  properly  to  a follower 
of  the  god  than  to  the  god  himself.  I am  reminded  here  of 
what  Clemens  Alexandrinus  says  of  Alexander  the  Great. 
(Protrept.  p.  48,  edit.  Pott.)  ’Ej3ot>Aero  de  ical  'A "Ke^avdpo^ 
'A ppuvog  vldg  elvai  6 onelv,  ml  Kepaa<popog  avanluTTe<r&cu  irpug  tuv 
ayakpcuTonoitiv , rd  nakdv  av&punov  vftp'iaai  anevdov  Kepan.  It 
was  Alexander’s  express  desire  to  be  represented  in  his  statue 
with  horns.  He  was  well  content  with  the  insult  thus  done  to 


NOTES.  219 

human  beauty,  if  only  a divine  origin  might  be  imputed  to 
him. 

Note  23,  p.  64. 

W ken  I maintained  in  a former  chapter  that  the  old  artists  had 
never  made  a fury,  it  had  not  escaped  me  that  the  furies  had 
more  than  one  temple,  which  certainly  would  not  have  been 
left  devoid  of  their  statues.  Pausanias  found  some  of  wood 
in  their  temple  at  Cerynea,  not  large  nor  in  any  way  remark- 
able. It  would  seem  that  the  art,  which  had  no  opportunity  of 
displaying  itself  on  them,  sought  to  make  amends  on  the  im- 
ages of  the  priestesses  which  stood  in  the  hall  of  the  temple, 
as  they  were  of  stone  and  of  very  beautiful  workmanship. 
(Pausanias  Achaic.  cap.  xxv.  p.  587,  edit.  Kuhn.)  Neither 
had  I forgotten  that  heads  of  them  were  supposed  to  have 
been  found  on  an  abraxas , made  known  by  Chifdetius,  and  on 
a lamp  by  Licetus.  (Dissertat.  sur  les  Furies  par  Bannier ; 
Memoires  de  l’Academie  des  Inscript.  T.  v.  48.)  Neither 
was  I unacquainted  with  the  Etruscan  vase  of  Gorius  (Tabl. 
1 51.  Musei  Etrusci)  whereon  are  Orestes  and  Pylades  at- 
tacked by  furies.  But  I was  speaking  of  works  of  art,  under 
which  head  I consider  none  of  these  to  come.  If  the  latter 
deserve  more  than  the  others  to  be  included  under  the  name, 
it  would  in  one  aspect  rather  confirm  my  theory  than  contra- 
dict it.  For,  little  as  the  Etruscan  artists  aimed  at  beauty  in 
most  cases,  they  yet  seem  to  have  characterized  the  furies 
more  by  their  dress  and  attributes  than  by  any  terrible  aspect 
of  countenance.  These  figures  thrust  their  torches  at  Orestes 
and  Pylades,  with  such  a tranquil  expression  of  face  that  they 
almost  seem  to  be  terrifying  them  in  sport.  The  horror  they 
inspire  in  Orestes  and  Pylades  appears  from  the  fear  of  the 
two  men,  not  at  all  from  the  shape  of  the  furies  themselves. 

They  are,  therefore,  at  once  furies  and  no  furies.  They  per- 
form the  office  of  furies,  but  without  that  appearance  of  vio- 
lence and  rage  which  we  are  accustomed  to  associate  with  the 
name.  They  have  not  that  brow  which,  as  Catullus  says, 
“expirantis  praeportat  pectoris  iras.”  Winkelmann  though 


220 


NOTES. 


lately  that  he  had  discovered,  upon  a cornelian  in  the  cabinet 
<of  Stoss,  a fury,  running,  with  streaming  hair  and  garments, 
and  a dagger  in  her  hand.  (Library  of  the  Fine  Arts,  vol.  v.) 
Von  Hagedorn  at  once  counselled  all  the  artists  to  turn  this 
discovery  to  account,  and  represent  furies  thus  in  their  pic- 
tures. (Betrachtungen  fiber  die  Malerei,  p.  222.)  But  Win- 
kelmann  himself  presently  threw  doubt  on  his  discovery, 
because  he  did  not  find  that  the  ancients  ever  armed  the 
furies  with  daggers  instead  of  torches.  (Descript,  des  Pierres 
Gravees,  p.  84.)  He  must  then  consider  the  figures  on  the 
coins  of  the  cities  of  Lyrba  and  Massaura,  which  Spanheim 
calls  furies  (Les  Cesars  de  Julien,  p.  44),  to  be  not  such  but  a 
Hecate  triforviis . Else  here  would  be  exactly  such  a fury, 
with  a dagger  in  each  hand,  and  strangely  enough  also  with 
flowing  hair,  while  in  the  other  figures  the  hair  is  covered  with 
a veil.  But  granting  Winkelmann’s  first  supposition  to  have 
been  correct,  the  same  would  apply  to  this  engraved  stone  as 
to  the  Etruscan  vase,  unless  owing  to  the  fineness  of  the  work 
the  features  were  indistinguishable.  Besides,  all  engraved 
stones,  from  their  use  as  seals,  belong  rather  to  symbolism ; 
and  the  figures  on  them  are  more  often  a conceit  of  the  owner 
than  the  voluntary  work  of  the  artist. 

Note  24,  p.  64* 

Fast.  lib.  vi.  295-98. 

Esse  diu  stultus  Vest®  simulacra  putavi: 

Mox  didici  curvo  nulla  subesse  tholo. 

Ignis  inextinctus  templo  celatur  in  illo  ; 

Effigiem  nullam  Vesta,  nec  ignis,  habet. 

“I  long  foolishly  thought  there  were  images  of  Vesta;  then 
I found  that  none  existed  beneath  the  arching  dome.  An  ever- 
burning fire  is  hidden  in  that  temple.  Image  there  is  none 
either  of  Vesta  or  of  fire.” 

Ovid  is  speaking  only  of  the  worship  of  Vesta  at  Rome, 
and  of  the  temple  erected  to  her  there  by  Numa,  of  whom  ha 
just  before  says ; 


NOTES. 


22 1 


Regis  opus  placidi,  quo  non  metuentius  ullum 
Numinis  ingenium  terra  Sabina  tulit. 

“The  work  of  that  peaceful  king  who  feared  the  gods  more 
than  any  other  offspring  of  the  Sabine  land.” 

Note  25,  p.  65. 

Fast.  lib.  iii.  v.  45,  46. 

Sylvia  fit  mater:  Vestas  simulacra  feruntur 
Virgineas  oculis  opposuisse  manus. 

Spence  should  thus  have  compared  the  different  parts  ot 
Ovid  together.  The  poet  is  speaking  of  different  times  ; here 
of  the  state  of  things  before  Numa,  there  of  the  state  of  things 
after  him.  Statues  of  her  were  worshipped  in  Italy  as  they 
were  in  Troy,  whence  ^Eneas  brought  her  rites  with  him. 

Manibus  vittas,  Vestamque  potentem, 
iEtemumque  adytis  effert  penetralibus  ignem, 

says  Virgil  of  the  ghost  of  Hector,  after  he  had  warned  iEneas 
to  fly.  “He  bears  in  his  hands  from  the  innermost  shrine 
garlands,  and  mighty  Vesta  and  the  eternal  fire.”  Here  the 
eternal  fire  is  expressly  distinguished  from  Vesta  herself  and 
from  her  statue.  Spence  cannot  have  consulted  the  Roman 
poets  with  much  care,  since  he  allowed  such  a passage  as  this 
to  escape  him. 

Note  26,  p.  65. 

Plinius,  lib.  xxxvi.  sect.  4.  “ Scopas  fecit.  —Vestam  sedentem 
laudatam  in  Servilianis  hortis.”  Lipsius  must  have  had  this 
passage  in  mind  when  he  wrote  (de  Vesta  cap.  3):  “Plinius 
Vestem  sedentem  effingi  solitam  ostendit,  a stabilitate.”  But 
what  Pliny  says  of  a single  work  by  Scopas  he  ought  not  to 
have  taken  for  a generally  accepted  characteristic.  In  fact, 
he  observes  that  on  coins  Vesta  was  as  often  represented 
standing  as  sitting.  This,  however,  was  no  correction  of 
Pliny,  but  only  of  hi?  own  mistaken  conception. 


222 


NOTES. 


Note  27,  p.  66. 

Georg.  Codinus  de  Originib.  Constant.  T r/v  yf]  1 TJryovoiv 

’Eariav , icai  ttIuttovolv  uvrr/v  yvvcuica,  rv/inavov  (3aoTa£ovoav,  kirtufy 
rove  avE/iovg  rj  yf/  v<p’  eavrrjv  ovyicAe'iEi.  Suidas,  following  him,  or 
both  following  some  older  authority,  says  the  same  thing 
under  the  word  'E aria.  “ Under  the  name  of  Vesta  the  Earth 
is  represented  by  a woman  bearing  a drum,  in  which  she  is 
supposed  to  hold  the  winds  confined.”  The  reason  is  some- 
what puerile.  It  would  have  sounded  better  to  say  that  she 
carried  a drum,  because  the  ancients  thought  her  figure  bore 
some  resemblance  to  one,  Gxvf^o.  avrrjQ  Tv/mavoEtdeg  eIvcll.  (Plu- 
tarchus  de  placitis  Philos,  cap.  10,  id.  de  facie  in  orbe  Lunse.) 
Perhaps,  after  all,  Codinus  was  mistaken  in  the  figure  or  the 
name  or  both.  Possibly  he  did  not  know  what  better  name  to 
give  to  what  he  saw  Vesta  holding,  than  a drum.  Or  he 
might  have  heard  it  called  tympanum,  and  the  only  thing  the 
word  suggested  to  him  was  the  instrument  known  to  us  as  a 
kettle-drum.  But  “ tympana  ” were  also  a kind  of  wheel. 

Hinc  radios  trivere  rotis,  hinc  tympana  plaustris 
Agricolie.  — (Virgilius  Georgic.  lib.  ii.  444.) 

Very  similar  to  such  a wheel  appears  to  me  the  object  borne 
by  Fabretti’s  Vesta  (ad  Tabulam  Iliadis,  p.  334)  which  that 
scholar  takes  to  be  a hand-mill. 

Note  28,  p.  70. 

Lib.  i.  Od.  35. 

Te  semper  anteit  sseva  Necessitas: 

Clavos  trabales  et  cuneos  manu 
Gestans  ahenea ; nec  severus 
Uncus  abest  liquidumque  plumbum. 

In  this  picture  of  Necessity  drawn  by  Horace,  perhaps  the 
richest  in  attributes  of  any  to  be  found  in  the  old  poets,  the 
nails,  the  clamps,  and  the  liquid  lead,  whether  regarded  as 
rm-ans  of  confinement  or  implements  of  punishment,  still 
belong  to  the  class  of  poetical,  rather  than  allegorical,  attri- 
outes.  But,  even  so,  they  are  too  crowf\ed  ; and  the  passage 


NOTES. 


223 


is  one  of  the  least  effective  in  Horace.  Sanadon  says : 
“J’ose  dire  que  ce  tableau,  pris  dans  le  detail,  serait  plus 
beau  sur  la  toile  que  dans  une  ode  heroi'que.  Je  ne  puis 
souffrir  cet  attirail  patibulaire  de  clous,  de  coins,  de  crocs,  et 
de  plomb  fondu.  J’ai  cru  en  devoir  decharger  la  traduction, 
en  susbtituant  les  idees  generales  aux  idees  singulieres.  C’est 
dommage  que  le  poete  ait  eu  besoin  de  ce  correctif.”  Sana- 
don’s  sentiment  was  fine  and  true,  but  he  does  not  give  the 
right  ground  for  it.  The  objection  is  not  that  these  attributes 
are  the  paraphernalia  of  the  gallows,  for  he  had  but  to  inter- 
pret them  in  their  other  sense  to  make  them  the  firmest  sup- 
ports of  architecture.  Their  fault  is  in  being  addressed  to  the 
eye  and  not  to  the  ear.  For  all  impressions  meant  for  the  eye, 
but  presented  to  us  through  the  ear,  are  received  with  effort, 
and  produce  no  great  degree  of  vividness.  These  lines  of 
Horace  remind  me  of  a couple  of  oversights  on  the  part  of 
Spence,  which  give  us  no  very  good  idea  of  the  exactitude 
with  which  he  has  studied  the  passages  he  cites  from  the  old 
poets.  He  is  speaking  of  the  image  under  which  the  Romans 
represented  faith  or  honesty.  (Dial,  x.)  “The  Romans,”  he 
says,  “called  her  ‘Fides;’  and,  when  they  called  her  ‘Sola 
Fides,’  seem  to  mean  the  same  as  we  do  by  the  words  ‘down- 
right honesty.’  She  is  represented  with  an  erect,  open  air,  and 
with  nothing  but  a thin  robe  on,  so  fine  that  one  might 
see  through  it.  Horace  therefore  calls  her  ‘ thin-dressed  ’ in 
one  of  his  odes,  and  ‘transparent’  in  another.”  In  these  few 
lines  are  not  less  than  three  gross  errors.  First,  it  is  false  that 
“sola  ” was  a distinct  epithet  applied  to  the  goddess  Fides.  In 
the  two  passages  from  Livy,  which  he  adduces  as  proof  (lib.  i. 
sect.  21,  lib.  ii.  sect.  3),  the  word  has  only  its  usual  significa- 
tion,— the  exclusion  of  all  else.  In  one  place,  indeed,  the 
“soli”  has  been  questioned  by  the  critics,  who  think  it  must 
have  crept  into  the  text  through  an  error  in  writing,  occasioned 
by  the  word  next  to  it,  which  is  “solenne.”  In  the  other 
passage  cited,  the  author  is  not  speaking  of  fidelity  at  all,  but 
of  innocence,  Innocentia.  Secondly,  Horace,  in  one  of  his 
odes  (the  thirty-fifth  of  the  first  book,  mentioned  above),  is 
said  to  have  applied  to  Fides  the  epithet  thin-dressed : 


224 


NOTES. 


Te  spes,  et  albo  rara  fides  colit 
Velata  panno. 

“Rarus,”  it  is  true,  can  also  mean  thin;  but  here  it  mean9 
only  rare,  seldom  appearing,  and  is  applied  to  Fidelity  herself, 
not  to  her  clothing.  Spence  would  have  been  right,  had  the 
poet  said,  “Fides  raro  velata  panno.”  Thirdly,  Horace  is 
said  to  have  elsewhere  called  faith  or  honesty  transparent,  in 
the  sense  in  which  friends  protest  to  one  another,  “ I wish  you 
could  read  my  heart.”  This  meaning  is  said  to  be  found  in 
the  line  of  the  eighteenth  ode  of  the  First  Book : 

Arcanique  Fides  prodiga,  pellucidior  vitro. 

How  can  a critic  allow  himself  to  be  thus  misled  by  a word  ? 
Is  a faith,  “arcani  prodiga,”  lavish  of  secrets,  faithfulness? 
is  it  not  rather  faithlessness  ? And  it  is  of  faithlessness,  in 
fact,  that  Horace  says,  “ She  is  transparent  as  glass,  because 
she  betrays  to  every  eye  the  secrets  entrusted  to  her.” 

Note  29,  p.  71. 

Apollo  delivers  the  washed  and  embalmed  body  of  Sarpedon 
to  Death  and  Sleep,  that  they  may  bring  him  to  his  native 
country.  (Iliad,  xvi.  681,  682.) 

nt/me  de  fuv  izopnoioiv  a[ia  Kpaiirvolci  (pepeo&at, 

‘"Y7TVU)  Kal  Qavurcp  dtdvpaoaiv. 

Caylus  recommends  this  idea  to  the  painter,  but  adds  : “ It  is 
a pity  that  Homer  has  given  us  no  account  of  the  attributes 
under  which  Sleep  was  represented  in  his  day.  We  recognize 
the  god  only  by  his  act,  and  we  crown  him  with  poppies.  These 
ideas  are  modern.  The  first  is  of  service,  but  cannot  be  em- 
ployed in  the  present  case,  where  even  the  flowers  would  be  out 
of  keeping  in  connection  with  the  figure  of  Death.”  (Tableaux 
tires  de  l’Hiade,  de  l’Odyssee  d’Homere,  et  de  l’Eneide  de  Vir- 
gile,  avec  des  observations  generates  sur  le  costume,  a Paris, 
1 7 57-58.)  That  is  requiring  of  Homer  ornamentations  of  that 
petty  kind  most  at  variance  with  the  nobility  of  his  style.  The 
most  ingenious  attributes  he  could  have  bestowed  on  Sleep 
would  not  have  characterized  him  so  perfectly,  nor  have  brought 


NOTES. 


225 


so  vivid  a picture  of  him  before  us,  as  the  single  touch  which 
makes  him  the  twin  brother  of  Death.  Let  the  artist  seek  to 
express  this,  and  he  may  dispense  with  all  attributes.  The  old 
artists  did,  in  fact,  make  Sleep  and  Death  resemble  each  other, 
like  twin-brothers.  On  a chest  of  cedar,  in  the  Temple  of  Juno 
at  Elis,  they  both  lay  as  boys  in  the  arms  of  Night.  One  was 
white,  the  other  black ; one  slept,  the  other  only  seemed  to 
sleep ; the  feet  of  both  were  crossed.  For  so  I should  prefer 
to  translate  the  words  of  Pausanias  (Eliac.  cap.  xviii.  p.  422, 
edit.  Kuhn),  ufitporipovg  dieoTpa/xfievovg  rove  nodac,  rather  than  by 
“ crooked  feet,”  as  Gedoyn  does,  “ les  pieds  contrefaits.”  What 
would  be  the  meaning  of  crooked  feet  ? To  lie  with  crossed 
feet  is  customary  with  sleepers.  Sleep  is  thus  represented  by 
Maffei.  (Raccol.  PI.  151.)  Modern  artists  have  entirely  aban- 
doned this  resemblance  between  Sleep  and  Death,  which  we 
find  among  the  ancients,  and  always  represent  Death  as  a 
skeleton,  or  at  best  a skeleton  covered  with  skin.  Caylus 
should  have  been  careful  to  tell  the  artists  whether  they  had 
better  follow  the  custom  of  the  ancients  or  the  moderns  in  this 
respect.  He  seems  to  declare  in  favor  of  the  modern  view,  since 
he  regards  Death  as  a figure  that  would  not  harmonize  well 
with  a flower-crowned  companion.  Has  he  further  considered 
how  inappropriate  this  modern  idea  would  be  in  a Homeric 
picture  ? How  could  its  loathsome  character  have  failed  to 
shock  him  ? I cannot  bring  myself  to  believe  that  the  little 
metal  figure  in  the  ducal  gallery  at  Florence,  representing  a 
skeleton  sitting  on  the  ground,  with  one  arm  on  an  urn  of 
ashes  (Spence’s  Polymetis,  tab.  xli.),  is  a veritable  antique. 
It  cannot  possibly  represent  Death,  because  the  ancients 
represented  him  very  differently.  Even  their  poets  never 
thought  of  him  under  this  repulsive  shape. 

Note  30,  p.  76. 

Richardson  cites  this  work  as  an  illustration  of  the  rule  that 
the  attention  of  the  spectator  should  be  diverted  by  nothing, 
however  admirable,  from  the  chief  figure.  “ Protogenes,”  he 
says,  “had  introduced  into  his  famous  picture  of  Ialysus  a 

r5 


226 


NOTES. 


partridge,  painted  with  so  much  skill  that  it  seemed  alive,  and 
was  admired  by  all  Greece.  But,  because  it  attracted  all  eyes 
to  itself,  to  the  detriment  of  the  whole  piece,  he  effaced  it.” 
(Traite  de  la  Peinture,  T.  i.  p.  46.)  Richardson  is  mistaken ; 
this  partridge  was  not  in  the  Ialysus,  but  in  another  picture  of 
Protogenes  called  the  Idle  Satyr,  or  Satyr  in  Repose,  ZaTvpoc 
ava7Ta.v6fi.cvoc.  I should  hardly  have  mentioned  this  error, 
which  arose  from  a misunderstanding  of  a passage  in  Pliny, 
had  not  the  same  mistake  been  made  by  Meursius.  (Rhodi. 
lib.  i.  cap.  14.)  “In  eadem  tabula,  scilicet  in  qua  Ialysus, 
Satyrus  erat,  quern  dicebant  Anapauomenon , tibeas  tenens.” 
Something  of  the  same  kind  occurs  in  Winkelmann.  (Von 
der  Nachahm.  der  Gr.  W.  in  der  Mai.  und  Bildh.  p.  56.) 
Strabo  is  the  only  authority  for  this  partridge  story,  and  he 
expressly  discriminates  between  the  Ialysus  and  the  Satyr 
leaning  against  a pillar  on  which  sat  the  partridge.  (Lib.  xiv.) 
Meursius,  Richardson,  and  Winkelmann  misunderstood  the 
passage  in  Pliny  (lib.  xxxv.  sect.  36),  from  not  perceiving  that 
he  was  speaking  of  two  different  pictures : the  one  which 
saved  the  city,  because  Demetrius  would  not  assault  the  place 
where  it  stood  ; and  another,  which  Protogenes  painted  during 
the  siege.  The  one  was  Ialysus,  the  other  the  Satyr. 

Note  31,  p.  79. 

This  invisible  battle  of  the  gods  has  been  imitated  by  Quintus 
Calaber  in  his  Twelfth  Book,  with  the  evident  design  of  im- 
proving on  his  model.  The  grammarian  seems  to  have  held 
it  unbecoming  in  a god  to  be  thrown  to  the  ground  by  a stone. 
He  therefore  makes  the  gods  hurl  at  one  another  huge  masses 
of  rock,  torn  up  from  Mount  Ida,  which,  however,  are  shat- 
tered against  the  limbs  of  the  immortals  and  fly  like  sand 
about  them. 

. . . 61  6e  KoTiuvac 
X^polv  ano/!)f)T/^avTec  art  ovteog  ’I taioio 
fiaXhov  kri  uXkrj'kovf;'  al  6e  ipafia&oiot  "fWM 
tela  dieoKtdvavTo  d-euv  Kepi  6’  uaxera  7via 
fnjyvvfieva  dia  Tvrda.  , 


NOTES. 


22  7 


A conceit  which  destroys  the  effect  by  marring  our  idea  of 
the  size  of  the  gods,  and  throwing  contempt  on  their  weapons. 
If  gods  throw  stones  at  one  another,  the  stones  must  be  able 
to  hurt  them,  or  they  are  like  silly  boys  pelting  each  othei 
with  earth.  So  old  Homer  remains  still  the  wiser,  and  all 
the  fault-finding  of  cold  criticism,  and  the  attempts  of  men 
of  inferior  genius  to  vie  with  him,  serve  but  to  set  forth  his 
wisdom  in  clearer  light.  I do  not  deny  that  Quintus’s  imitation 
has  excellent  and  original  points ; but  they  are  less  in  harmony 
with  the  modest  greatness  of  Homer  than  calculated  to  do 
honor  to  the  stormy  fire  of  a more  modern  poet.  That  the 
cry  of  the  gods,  which  rang  to  the  heights  of  heaven  and  the 
depths  of  hell,  should  not  be  heard  by  mortals,  seems  to  me  a 
most  expressive  touch.  The  cry  was  too  mighty  to  be  grasped 
by  the  imperfect  organs  of  human  hearing. 

Note  32,  p.  80. 

No  one  who  has  read  Homer  once  through,  ever  so  hastily, 
will  differ  from  this  statement  as  far  as  regards  strength  and 
speed ; but  he  will  not  perhaps  at  once  recall  examples  where 
the  poet  attaches  superhuman  size  to  his  gods.  I would  there- 
fore refer  him,  in  addition  to  the  description  of  Mars  just 
quoted,  whose  body  covered  seven  hides,  to  the  helmet  of 
Minerva,  kvvetjv  irraTov  tvoI'ccjv  'rrpvTieeoo’  apapvlav  (Iliad,  v.  744), 
under  which  could  be  concealed  as  many  warriors  as  a hun- 
dred cities  could  bring  into  the  field;  to  the  stride  of  Nep- 
tune (Iliad,  xiii.  20) ; and  especially  to  the  lines  from  the 
description  of  the  shield,  where  Mars  and  Minerva  lead  the 
troops  of  the  beleaguered  city.  (Iliad,  xviii.  516-519.) 

f/o)X£  d’  apa  ofov  'Aprjg  ml  TlaXAaq  Adf/vr/, 
ap({>o  xpvae'io),  xpvaeia  de  elpara  sodr/v, 

Ka/ Iw  ml  peyaXcj  avv  tevxeow,  wore  \)etj  tt ep, 
afitplc  apitf/Xu'  1 aol  6’  vi?  oXitjoveg  ijaav. 

• ■ . While  the  youths 
Marched  on,  with  Mars  and  Pallas  at  their  head. 

Both  wrought  in  gold,  with  golden  garments  on, 


228 


NOTES. 


Stately  and  large  in  form,  and  over  all 

Conspicuous  in  bright  armor,  as  became 

Tfo  gods ; the  rest  were  of  an  humbler  size.  — ■ Bryant. 

Judging  from  the  explanations  they  feel  called  upon  to  give 
of  the  great  helmet  of  Minerva,  Homer’s  commentators,  old 
as  well  as  new,  seem  not  always  sufficiently  to  have  borne  in 
mind  this  wonderful  size  of  the  gods.  (See  the  notes  on  the 
above-quoted  passage  in  the  edition  of  Clarke  and  Ernesti.) 
But  we  lose  much  in  majesty  by  thinking  of  the  Homeric 
deities  as  of  ordinary  size,  as  we  are  accustomed  to  see  them 
on  canvas  in  the  company  of  mortals.  Although  painting 
is  unable  to  represent  these  superhuman  dimensions,  sculpture 
to  a certain  extent  may,  and  I am  convinced  that  the  old 
masters  borrowed  from  Homer  their  conception  of  the  gods  in 
general  as  well  as  the  colossal  size  which  they  not  infrequently 
gave  them.  (Herodot.  lib.  ii.  p.  130,  edit.  Wessel.)  Further 
remarks  upon  the  use  of  the  colossal,  its  excellent  effect  in 
sculpture  and  its  want  of  effect  in  painting,  I reserve  for 
another  place. 

Note  33,  p.  82. 

Homer,  I acknowledge,  sometimes  veils  his  deities  in  a cloud, 
but  only  when  they  are  not  to  be  seen  by  other  deities.  In 
the  fourteenth  book  of  the  Iliad,  for  instance,  where  Juno  and 
Sleep,  qipa  kooapevu,  betake  themselves  to  Mount  Ida,  the  crafty 
goddess’s  chief  care  was  not  to  be  discovered  by  Venus,  whose 
girdle  she  had  borrowed  under  pretence  of  a very  different 
journey.  In  the  same  book  the  love-drunken  Jupiter  is 
obliged  to  surround  himself  and  his  spouse  with  a golden 
cloud  to  overcome  her  chaste  reluctance. 

7r&c  k’  eoi,  el  Tig  vui  deuv  aieiyevETauv 
evdovi  a&prioeie.  , , » 

She  did  not  fear  to  be  seen  by  men,  but  by  the  gods.  And 
although  Homer  makes  Jupiter  say  a few  lines  further  on,— 

*Hpi7,  f. irjTe  -&EUV  roye  deldi&i  (jltjte  tlv ’ avSpuv 
oipeodar  rolbv  rot  kyb)  vtyog  a[ityiKakw\>ut 
Xpvoeov . 


NOTES. 


229 


“Fear  thou  not  that  any  god  or  man  will  look  upon  us,”  that 
does  not  prove  that  the  cloud  was  needed  to  conceal  them 
from  the  eyes  of  mortals,  but  that  in  this  cloud  they  would  be 
as  invisible  to  the  gods  as  they  always  were  to  men.  So, 
when  Minerva  puts  on  the  helmet  of  Pluto  (Iliad,  v.  485), 
which  has  the  same  effect  of  concealment  that  a cloud  would 
have,  it  is  not  that  she  may  be  concealed  from  the  Trojans, 
who  either  see  her  not  at  all  or  under  the  form  of  Sthenelus, 
but  simply  that  she  may  not  be  recognized  by  Mars. 

Note  34,  p.  87. 

Tableaux  tires  de  l’lliade,  Avert,  p.  5.  “On  est  toujours 
convenu,  que  plus  un  poeme  fournissait  d’images  et  d’actions, 
plus  il  avait  de  superiorite  en  poesie.  Cette  reflexion  m’avait 
conduit  a penser  que  le  calcul  des  differens  tableaux,  qu’  offrent 
les  poemes,  pouvait  servir  a comparer  le  merite  respectif  des 
poemes  et  des  poetes.  Le  nombre  et  le  genre  des  tableaux 
que  presentent  ces  grands  ouvrages,  auraient  ete  une  espece  de 
pierre  de  touche,  ou,  plutot,  une  balance  certaine  du  merite 
de  ces  poemes  et  du  genie  de  leurs  auteurs.” 

Note  35,  p.  88. 

What  we  call  poetic  pictures,  the  ancients,  as  we  learn  from 
Longinus,  called  “ phantasiae  ; ” and  what  we  call  illusion  in 
such  pictures,  they  named  “enargia.”  It  was  therefore  said 
by  some  one,  as  Plutarch  tells  us  (Erot.  T.  ii.  edit.  Henr.  Steph. 
p.  1351),  that  poetic  “phantasiae”  were,  on  account  of  their 
“enargia,”  waking  dreams:  A l Troiqnical  (pavraotcu  6:a  ti)v 

ivapyeiav  kyprjyopoTo )v  hvirvia  holv.  I could  wish  that  our 
modern  books  upon  poetry  had  used  this  nomenclature,  and 
avoided  the  word  picture  altogether.  We  should  thus  have 
been  spared  a multitude  of  doubtful  rules,  whose  chief  founda- 
tion is  the  coincidence  of  an  arbitrary  term.  No  one  would  then 
have  thought  of  confining  poetic  conceptions  within  the  limits 
of  a material  picture.  But  the  moment  these  conceptions 
were  called  a poetic  picture,  the  foundation  for  the  exror  was 
laid. 


230 


NOTES. 


Note  36,  p.  89. 

Iliad,  iv.  105. 

airin'  icrv2.a  rogov  kvtjoov 

not  rd  pev  sv  Karikh]  he  Tavvooapevog,  irorl  yaS§ 

aynULvag'  . . . 

avrdp  6 avka  tt upa  (paperpTjg,  ek  <F  tker'  Ibv 
afiXnra  TCTspoevTa,  peXcuveuv  Ipp'  6(hvauv’ 
alipa  d’  knl  vevpr)  KaTenoopei  Tunpov  olardv, 

§?jce  <P  bpov  y7iV(p'i6ag  re  2,a(3dv  nal  vevpa  fiona* 
vevprjv  ph>  pa£6)  iveXaocv,  rotjov  de  CLdrjpov. 
avTap  b TELdrj  KynAorepeg  peya  to^ov  etelvsv, 

Aiy£e  f3tdg , vtvprj  6e  pey’  laxev  aXro  (5*  blaTbg 
d£v[3£?i,7}S,  tcad’  ofitAov  krcnzTEcrQ-ai  peveaivuv. 

To  bend  that  bow  the  warrior  lowered  it 
And  pressed  an  end  against  the  earth.  . . • 

Then  the  Lycian  drew  aside 

The  cover  from  his  quiver,  taking  out 

A well-fledged  arrow  that  had  never  flown,  — = 

A cause  of  future  sorrows.  On  the  string 
He  laid  that  fatal  arrow.  . . . 

Grasping  the  bowstring  and  the  arrow’s  notch 
He  drew  them  back  and  forced  the  string  to  meet 
His  breast,  the  arrow-head  to  meet  the  bow, 

Till  the  bow  formed  a circle.  Then  it  twanged; 

The  cord  gave  out  a shrilly  sound  ; the  shaft 

Leaped  forth  in  eager  haste  to  reach  the  host.  — Brtawt. 

Note  37,  p.  108. 

Prologue  to  the  Satires,  340. 

That  not  in  Fancy’s  maze  he  wandered  long, 

But  stooped  to  Truth  and  moralized  his  song. 

Ibid.  148. 

. . . Who  could  take  offence 
While  pure  description  held  the  place  of  sense  ? 

Warburton’s  remark  on  this  last  line  may  have  the  force  of 
an  explanation  by  the  poet  himself.  “ He  uses  pure  equivo- 
cally, to  signify  either  chaste  or  empty ; and  has  given  in  this 


NOTES. 


231 


line  what  he  esteemed  the  true  character  of  descriptive  poetry, 
as  it  is  called,  — a composition,  in  his  opinion,  as  absurd  as 
a feast  made  up  of  sauces.  The  use  of  a picturesque  imagina- 
tion is  to  brighten  and  adorn  good  sense  : so  that  to  employ  it 
only  in  description,  is  like  children’s  delighting  in  a prism  for 
the  sake  of  its  gaudy  colors,  which,  when  frugally  managed 
and  artfully  disposed,  might  be  made  to  represent  and  illus- 
trate the  noblest  objects  in  nature.” 

Both  poet  and  commentator  seem  to  have  regarded  the 
matter  rather  from  a moral  than  an  artistic  point  of  view. 
But  so  much  the  better  that  this  style  of  poetry  seems  equally 
worthless  from  whichever  point  it  be  viewed. 

Note  38,  p.  108. 

Poetique  Franfaise,  T.  ii.  p.  501.  “J’ecrivais  ces  reflexions 
avant  que  les  essais  des  Allemands  dans  ce  genre  (l’Eglogue) 
fussent  connus  parmi  nous.  Ils  ont  execute  ce  que  j’avais 
con9u ; et  s’ils  parviennent  h donner  plus  au  moral  et  moins 
au  detail  des  peintures  physiques,  ils  excelleront  dans  ce 
genre,  plus  riche,  plus  vaste,  plus  fecond,  et  infiniment  plus 
naturel  et  plus  moral  que  celui  de  la  galanterie  champetre. 

Note  39,  p.  115. 

1 see  that  Servius  attempts  to  excuse  Virgil  on  other  grounds, 
for  the  difference  between  the  two  shields  has  not  escaped  his 
notice.  “ Sane  interest  inter  hunc  et  Homeri  clypeum ; illic 
enim  singula  dum  fiunt  narrantur;  hie  vero  perfecto  opere 
nascuntur  ; nam  et  hie  arma  prius  accipit  Eneas,  quam  spec- 
taret;  ibi  postquam  omnia  narrata  sunt,  sic  a Thetide  deferun- 
tur  ad  Achillem.”  There  is  a marked  difference  between  this 
and  the  shield  of  Homer:  for  there  events  are  narrated  one 
by  one  as  they  are  done,  here  they  are  known  by  the  finished 
work;  here  the  arms  are  received  by  Eneas  before  being 
seen,  there,  after  all  has  been  told,  they  are  carried  by  Thetis 
to  Achilles.  (Ad.  v.  625,  lib.  viii.  Eneid.)  Why  ? “ For  this 
reason,”  says  Servius : “ because,  on  the  shield  of  .Eneas, 
were  represented  not  only  the  few  events  referred  to  by  the 
poet,  but, — 


232 


NOTES. 


. . . genus  omne  futurae 
Stirpis  ab  Ascanio,  pugnataque  in  ordine  bella, 

“All  the  description  of  his  future  race  from  Ascanius,  and  the 
battles,  in  the  order  in  which  they  should  occur.”  It  would 
have  been  impossible  for  the  poet,  in  the  same  short  space  of 
time  occupied  by  Vulcan  in  his  work,  to  mention  by  name  the 
long  line  of  descendants,  and  to  tell  of  all  their  battles  in  the 
order  of  their  occurrence.  That  seems  to  be  the  meaning  of 
Servius’s  somewhat  obscure  words  : “ Opportune  ergo  Virgi- 
lius,  quia  non  videtur  simul  et  narrationis  celeritas  potuisse 
connecti,  et  opus  tarn  velociter  expedire,  ut  ad  verbum  posset 
occurrere.”  Since  Virgil  could  bring  forward  but  a small 
part  of  “the  unnarratable  text  of  the  shield,”  and  not  even 
that  little  while  Vulcan  was  at  work,  he  was  obliged  to  reserve 
it  till  the  whole  was  finished.  For  Virgil’s  sake,  I hope  that 
this  argument  of  Servius  is  baseless.  My  excuse  is  much 
more  creditable  to  him.  What  need  was  there  of  putting  the 
whole  of  Roman  history  on  a shield?  With  few  pictures 
Homer  made  his  shield  an  epitome  of  all  that  was  happen- 
ing in  the  world.  It  would  almost  seem  that  Virgil,  despair- 
ing of  surpassing  the  Greek  in  the  design  and  execution  of 
his  pictures,  was  determined  to  exceed  him  at  least  in  their 
number,  and  that  would  have  been  the  height  of  childishness. 

Note  40,  p.  118. 

“ Scuto  ejus,  in  quo  Amazonum  prcelium  caelavit  intumescente 
ambitu  parmae ; ejusdem  concava  parte  deorum  et  gigantum, 
dimicationem.” 

“ Her  shield,  on  the  convex  side  of  which  he  sculptured  a 
battle  of  the  Amazons,  and  on  the  concave  side  the  contest  of 
the  gods  and  giants.”  (Plinius,  lib.  xxxvi.  sect.  4.) 

Note  41,  p.  122. 

The  first  begins  at  line  483  and  goes  to  line  489 ; the  second 
extends  from  490  to  509;  the  third,  from  510  to  540;  the 
fourth,  from  541  to  549 ; the  fifth,  from  550  to  560 ; the  sixth, 
from  561  to  572;  the  seventh,  from  573  to  586;  the  eighth, 


NOTES. 


233 


from  587  to  589 ; the  ninth,  from  590  to  605 ; and  the  tenth, 
from  606  to  60S.  The  third  picture  alone  is  not  so  introduced ; 
but  that  it  is  one  by  itself  is  evident  from  the  words  introduc- 
ing the  second,  — iv  de  6vo  nohjoe  7 rokug, — as  also  from  th« 
nature  of  the  subject. 

Note  42,  p.  123. 

Iliad,  vol.  v.  obs.  p.  61.  In  this  passage  Pope  makes  ax 
entirely  false  use  of  the  expression  “aerial  perspective,”  which, 
in  fact,  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  diminishing  of  the  size 
according  to  the  increased  distance,  but  refers  only  to  the 
change  of  color  occasioned  by  the  air  or  other  medium  through 
which  the  object  is  seen.  A man  capable  of  this  blunder  may 
justly  be  supposed  ignorant  of  the  whole  subject. 

Note  43,  p.  128. 

Constantinus  Manasses  Compend.  Chron.  p.  20  (edit.  Venet). 
Madame  Dacier  was  well  pleased  with  this  portrait  of  Manas- 
ses, except  for  its  tautology.  “ De  Helenae  pulchritudine  om- 
nium optime  Constantinus  Manasses ; nisi  in  eo  tautologiam 
reprehendas.  (Ad  Dictyn  Cretensem,  lib.  i.  cap.  3,  p.  5.)  She 
also  quotes,  according  to  Mezeriac  (Comment,  sur  les  Epitres 
d’Ovide,  T.  i.  p.  361),  the  descriptions  given  by  Dares  Phrygius, 
and  Cedrenus,  of  the  beauty  of  Helen.  In  the  first  there  is 
one  trait  which  sounds  rather  strange.  Dares  says  that  Helen 
had  a mole  between  her  eyebrows  : “ notam  inter  duo  super- 
cilia habentem.”  But  that  could  not  have  been  a beauty.  I 
wish  the  Frenchwoman  had  given  her  opinion.  I,  for  my 
part,  regard  the  word  “nota”  as  a corruption,  and  think  that 
Dares  meant  to  speak  of  what  the  Greeks  called  [Jieootypvov,  and 
the  Latins,  “ glabella.  ” He  means  to  say  that  Helen’s  eyebrows 
did  not  meet,  but  that  there  was  a little  space  between  them. 
The  taste  of  the  ancients  was  divided  on  this  point.  Some 
considered  this  space  between  the  eyebrows  beauty,  others  not. 
(Junius  de  Pictura  Vet.  lib.  iii.  cap.  9,  p.  245.)  Anacreon  took  a 
middle  course.  The  eyebrows  of  his  beloved  maiden  were 
neither  perceptibly  separated,  nor  were  they  fully  grown  to 


234 


NOTES. 


gether : they  tapered  off  delicately  at  a certain  point.  He 
says  to  the  artist  who  is  to  paint  her  (Od.  28)  : — 

to  fieaoippvov  Se  pi  pot 
SiaKoirre,  prjTE  ploys, 
iXETG)  6'  6tCG)£  kKELVTj 
Ti  2.eXtjt96tuc  cvvotypvv 
)3?iE<pdpO)V  LTVV  KEXaLVIJV. 

This  is  Pauer’s  reading,  but  the  meaning  is  the  same  in  other 
versions,  and  has  been  rightly  giv*n  by  Henr.  Stephano : — 

Supercilii  nigrantes 
Discrimina  nec  arcus, 

Confundito  nec  illos : 

Sed  junge  sic  ut  anceps 
Divortium  relinquas, 

Quale  esse  cernis  ipsi. 

But  if  my  interpretation  of  Dares’  meaning  be  the  true  one, 
what  should  we  read  instead  of  “notam  ? ” Perhaps  “moram.” 
For  certainly  “mora”  may  mean  not  only  the  interval  of  time 
before  something  happens,  but  also  the  impediment,  the  space 
between  one  thing  and  another. 

Ego  inquieta  montium  jaceam  mora, 

is  the  wish  of  the  raving  Hercules  in  Seneca,  which  Gronovius 
very  well  explains  thus  : “ Optat  se  medium  jacere  inter  duaa 
Symplegades,  illarum  velut  moram,  impedimentum,  obicem; 
qui  eas  moretur,  vetet  aut  satis  arete  conjungi,  aut  rursus  dis» 
trahi.”  The  same  poet  uses  “laceratorum  morae  ” in  the  sense 
of  “juncturae.”  (Schrcederus  ad.  v.  762.  Thyest.) 

Note  44,  p.  131. 

Dialogo  della  Pittura,  intitolata  P Aretino  s Firenze  1735, 
p.  178.  “ Se  vogliono  i Pittori  senza  fatica  trovare  un  perfetto 

esempio  di  bella  Donna,  legiano  quelle  Stanze  dell’  Ariosto, 
nelle  quali  egli  discrive  mirabilmente  le  belezze  della  Fata 
Alcina;  e vedranno  parimente,  quanto  i buoni  Poeti  siano 
ancora  essi  Pittori.*' 


NOTES. 


235 


Note  45,  p.  131. 

Ibid.  “ Ecco,  che,  quanto  alia  proporzione,  1’  ingeniosissimo 
Ariosto  assegna  la  migliore,  che  sappiano  formar  le  mani  de* 
piii  eccellenti  Pittori,  usando  questa  voce  industri,  per  dinotar 
la  diligenza,  che  conviene  al  buono  artefice.” 

Note  46,  p.  132. 

Ibid.  “Qui  1*  Ariosto  colorisce,  e in  questo  suo  oolorire 
dimostra  essere  un  Titiano.” 

Note  47,  p.  132. 

Ibid.  “Poteva  1’  Ariosto  nella  guisa,  che  ha  detto  chioma 
bionda,  dir  chioma  d’  oro : ma  gli  parve  forse,  che  havrebbe 
havuto  troppo  del  Poetico.  Da  che  si  puo  ritrar,  che  ’1 
Pittore  dee  imitar  1 ’oro,  e non  metterlo  (come  fanno  i Mi- 
niatori)  nelle  sue  Pitture,  in  modo,  che  si  possa  dire,  que  capelli 
non  sono  d’  oro,  ma  par  che  risplendano,  come  1’  oro.”  What 
Dolce  goes  on  to  quote  from  Athenaeus  is  remarkable,  but 
happens  to  be  a misquotation.  I shall  speak  of  it  in  another 
place. 

Note  48,  p.  132. 

Ibid.  “II  naso,  che  discende  gih,  havendo  peraventura  ia 
considerazione  a quelle  forme  de’  nasi,  che  si  veggono  ne* 
ritratti  delle  belle  Romane  antiche.” 

Note  49,  p.  143. 

Pliny  says  of  Apelles  (lib.  xxxv.  sect.  36) : “ Fecit  et  Dianam 
sacrificantium  Virginum  choro  mixtam  ; quibus  vicisse  Homeri 
versus  videtur  id  ipsum  describentis.”  “ He  also  made  a Diana 
surrounded  by  a band  of  virgins  performing  a sacrifice ; a 
work  in  which  he  would  seem  to  have  surpassed  the  verses  of 
Homer  describing  the  same  thing.”  This  praise  may  be  per- 
fectly just ; for  beautiful  nymphs  surrounding  a beautiful  god- 
dess, who  towers  above  them  by  the  whole  height  of  her 
majestic  brow,  form  a theme  more  fitting  the  painter  than  the 
poet.  But  I am  somewhat  suspicious  of  the  word  “ sacrificaii~ 


fcOTES. 


236 

tium.”  What  have  the  nymphs  of  Diana  to  do  with  offering 
sacrifices  ? Is  that  the  occupation  assigned  them  by  Homer  ? 
By  no  means.  They  roam  with  the  goddess  over  hills  and 
through  forest ; they  hunt,  play,  dance.  (Odyss.  vi.  102-106). 

oIt]  6 ’ * A pTEuig  dot  mf  ovpeoc  loxeaipa 
7}  nard,  T pvycrov  irepipr/Kerov , r/  ’Epvuavdov 
Tepnopevr}  Kanpocot  ical  une'iyg  h\a§OLGi' 
rij  6e  iT  upa  Nvptyai,  Kovpat  Atb^  aiy  16x010 
uypovopoL  naitfivor  . . „ 

As  when  o’er  Erymanth  Diana  roves 
Or  wide  Taygetus’s  resounding  groves ; 

A sylvan  train  the  huntress  queen  surrounds, 

Her  rattling  quiver  from  her  shoulder  sounds ; 

Fierce  in  the  sport  along  the  mountain  brow, 

They  bay  the  boar  or  chase  the  bounding  roe. 

High  o’er  the  lawn  with  more  majestic  pace, 

Above  the  nymphs  she  treads  with  stately  grace.  — Pops. 

Pliny,  therefore,  can  hardly  have  written  “sacrificantium,” 
rather  “venantium”  (hunting),  or  something  like  it ; perhaps 
“ sylvis  vagantium”  (roaming  the  woods),  which  corresponds 
more  nearly  in  number  of  letters  to  the  altered  word.  “ Saltan- 
tium  ” (bounding),  approaches  most  nearly  to  the  n at&voi  of 
Homer.  Virgil,  also,  in  his  imitation  of  this  passage,  represents 
the  nymphs  as  dancing.  (iEneid,  i.  497,  498.) 

Qualis  in  Eurotae  ripis,  aut  per  juga  Cynthi 
Exercet  Diana  choros  . . . 

Such  on  Eurotas’  banks  or  Cynthus’  height 
Diana  seems ; and  so  she  charms  the  sight, 

When  in  the  dance  the  graceful  goddess  leads 

The  choir  of  nymphs  and  overtops  their  heads.  — Drydbn< 

Spence  gives  a remarkable  criticism  on  this  passage.  (Poly- 
metis, dial,  viii.)  “This  Diana,”  he  says,  “both  in  the  picture 
and  in  the  descriptions,  was  the  Diana  Venatrix,  though  she 
was  not  represented,  either  by  Virgil  or  Apelles  or  Homer,  as 
hunting  with  her  nymphs;  but  as  employed  with  them  in  thal 


NOTES. 


237 


sort  of  dances  which  of  old  were  regarded  as  very  solemn 
acts  of  devotion.”  In  a note  he  adds,  “The  expression  of 
nai&iv,  used  by  Homer  on  this  occasion,  is  scarce  proper  for 
hunting ; as  that  of  “ choros  exercere,”  in  Virgil,  should  be 
understood  of  the  religious  dances  of  old,  because  dancing,  in 
the  old  Roman  idea  of  it,  was  indecent,  even  for  men,  in  public, 
unless  it  were  the  sort  of  dances  used  in  honor  of  Mars  or 
Bacchus  or  some  other  of  their  gods.”  Spence  supposes  that 
those  solemn  dances  are  here  referred  to,  which,  among  the 
ancients,  were  counted  among  the  acts  of  religion.  “ It  is  in 
consequence  of  this,”  he  says,  “that  Pliny,  in  speaking  of 
Diana’s  nymphs  on  this  very  occasion,  uses  the  word  “sacrifi- 
care  ” of  them,  which  quite  determines  these  dances  of  theirs  to 
have  been  of  the  religious  kind.”  He  forgets  that,  in  Virgil, 
Diana  joins  in  the  dance,  “ exercet  Diana  choros.”  If  this  were 
a religious  dance,  in  whose  honor  did  Diana  dance  it  ? in  hex 
own,  or  in  honor  of  some  other  deity  ? Both  suppositions  are 
absurd.  If  the  old  Romans  did  hold  dancing  in  general  to  be 
unbecoming  in  a grave  person,  was  that  a reason  why  their 
poets  should  transfer  the  national  gravity  to  the  manners  of 
the  gods,  which  were  very  differently  represented  by  the  old 
Greek  poets?  When  Horace  says  of  Venus  (Od.  iv.  lib.  i.),— 

Jam  Cytherea  choros  ducit  Venus,  imminente  luna ; 

Junctaeque  Nymphis  Gratiae  decentes 

Alterno  terram  quatiunt  pede  . . . 

“Now  Cytherean  Venus  leads  the  bands,  under  the  shining 
moon,  and  the  fair  graces,  joined  with  the  nymphs,  beat  the 
ground  with  alternate  feet,” — were  these,  likewise,  sacred, 
religious  dances?  But  it  is  wasting  words  to  argue  against 
such  a conceit. 

Note  50,  p.  145. 

Plinius,  lib.  xxxiv.  sect.  19.  “ Ipse  tamen  corporum  tenus 

curiosus,  animi  sensus  non  expressisse  videtur,  capillum  quo- 
que  et  pubem  non  emendatius  fecisse,  quam  rudis  antiquitu 
instituisset. 


238 


notp;s. 


“ Hie  primus  nervos  et  venas  expressit,  capillumque  diligen* 
tius.” 


Note  51,  p.  162. 


The  Connoisseur,  vol.  i.  no.  21.  The  beauty  of  Knonm- 
quaiha  is  thus  described.  “He  was  struck  with  the  glossy 
hue  of  her  complexion,  which  shone  like  the  jetty  down  on 
the  black  hogs  of  Hessaqua ; he  was  ravished  with  the  prest 
gristle  of  her  nose ; and  his  eyes  dwelt  with  admiration  on  the 
flaccid  beauties  of  her  breasts,  which  descended  to  her  navel.” 
And  how  were  these  charms  set  off  by  art  ? “ She  made  a 
varnish  of  the  fat  of  goats  mixed  with  soot,  with  which  she 
anointed  her  whole  body  as  she  stood  beneath  the  rays  of  the 
sun  ; her  locks  were  clotted  with  melted  grease,  and  powdered 
with  the  yellow  dust  of  Buchu  ; her  face,  which  shone  like  the 
polished  ebony,  was  beautifully  varied  with  spots  of  red 
earth,  and  appeared  like  the  sable  curtain  of  the  night  bespan- 
gled with  stars ; she  sprinkled  her  limbs  with  wood-ashes,  and 
perfumed  them  with  the  dung  of  Stinkbingsem.  Her  arms 
and  legs  were  entwined  with  the  shining  entrails  of  an  heifer ; 
from  her  neck  there  hung  a pouch  composed  of  the  stomach 
of  a kid;  the  wings  of  an  ostrich  overshadowed  the  fleshy 
promontories  behind ; and  before  she  wore  an  apron  formed 
of  the  shaggy  ears  of  a lion.” 

Here  is  further  the  marriage  ceremony  of  the  loving  pair. 
“The  Surri,  or  Chief  Priest,  approached  them,  and,  in  a deep 
voice,  chanted  the  nuptial  rites  to  the  melodious  grumbling  of 
the  Gom-Gom ; and,  at  the  same  time  (according  to  the 
manner  of  Caffraria),  bedewed  them  plentifully  with  the 
urinary  benediction.  The  bride  and  bridegroom  rubbed  in 
the  precious  stream  with  ecstasy,  while  the  briny  drops  trickled 
from  their  bodies,  like  the  oozy  surge  from  the  rocks  of 
Chirigriqua.” 

Note  52,  p.  166. 


The  Sea-Voyage,  act  iii.  scene  1.  A French  pirate  ship  is 
thrown  upon  a desert  island.  Avarice  and  envy  cause  quairels 


NOTES, 


239 


among  the  men,  and  a couple  of  wretches,  who  had  long 
suffered  extreme  want  on  the  island,  seize  a favorable  oppor- 
tunity to  put  to  sea  in  the  ship.  Robbed  thus  of  their  whole 
stock  of  provisions,  the  miserable  men  see  death,  in  its  worst 
forms,  staring  them  in  the  face,  and  express  to  each  other 
their  hunger  and  despair  as  follows  : — 

Lamure.  Oh,  what  a tempest  have  I in  my  stomach! 

How  my  empty  guts  cry  out ! My  wounds  ache, 

Would  they  would  bleed  again,  that  I might  get 
Something  to  quench  my  thirst  I 

Franville.  O Lamure,  the  happiness  my  dogs  had 
When  I kept  house  at  home ! They  had  a storehouse, 

A storehouse  of  most  blessed  bones  and  crusts. 

Happy  crusts  1 Oh,  how  sharp  hunger  pinches  me! 

Lamure.  How  now,  what  news? 

Morillar.  Hast  any  meat  yet  ? 

Franville.  Not  a bit  that  I can  see. 

Here  be  goodly  quarries,  but  they  be  cruel  hard 
To  gnaw.  I ha’  got  some  mud,  we’ll  eat  it  with  spoons; 

Very  good  thick  mud  ; but  it  stinks  damnably. 

There’s  old  rotten  trunks  of  trees,  too, 

But  not  a leaf  nor  blossom  in  all  the  island. 

Lamure.  How  it  looks  1 
Morillar . It  stinks  too. 

Lamure.  It  may  be  poison. 

Franville.  Let  it  be  any  thing, 

So  I can  get  it  down.  Why,  man, 

Poison’s  a princely  dish ! 

Morillar.  Hast  thou  no  biscuit  ? 

No  crumbs  left  in  thy  pocket  ? Here  is  my  doublet. 

Give  me  but  three  small  crumbs. 

Franville.  Not  for  three  kingdoms, 

If  I were  master  of  ’em.  Oh,  Lamure, 

But  one  poor  joint  of  mutton  we  ha’  scorned,  man! 

Lamure.  Thou  speak’ st  of  paradise ; 

Or  but  the  snuffs  of  those  healths, 

We  have  lewdly  at  midnight  flung  away. 

Morillar • Ah,  but  to  lick  the  glasses! 

But  this  is  nothing,  compared  with  the  next  scene,  when  th» 
ship’s  surgeon  enters. 

Franville.  Here  cones  the  surgeon.  What 
Hast  thou  discovered  ? Smile,  smile,  and  comfort  us. 


240 


NOTES. 


Surgeon.  I am  expiring, 

Smile  they  that  can.  I can  find  nothing,  gentlemen, 

Here’s  nothing  can  be  meat  without  a miracle. 

Oh,  that  I had  my  boxes  and  my  lints  now, 

My  stupes,  my  tents,  and  those  sweet  helps  of  nature! 

What  dainty  dishes  could  I make  of  them ! 

Morillar.  Hast  ne’er  an  old  suppository? 

Surgeon.  Oh,  would  I had,  sir! 

Lamure ■ Or  but  the  paper  where  such  a cordial, 

Potion,  or  pills  hath  been  entombed ! 

Franville . Or  the  best  bladder,  where  a cooling  glister? 

Morillar . Hast  thou  no  searcloths  left  ? 

Nor  any  old  poultices  ? 

Franville.  We  care  not  to  what  it  hath  been  ministered. 

Surgeon.  Sure  I have  none  of  these  dainties,  gentlemen. 
Franville.  Where’s  the  great  wen 
Thou  cut’st  from  Hugh  the  sailor3 s shoulder? 

That  would  serve  now  for  a most  princely  banquet. 

Surgeon.  Ay,  if  we  had  it,  gentlemen. 

I flung  it  overboard,  slave  that  I was. 

Lamure.  A most  improvident  villain ! 

Note  53,  p.  177. 

/Eneid,  lib.  ii.  7,  and  especially  lib.  xi.  183.  We  might  safely, 
therefore,  add  such  a work  to  the  list  of  lost  writings  by  this 
author. 

Note  54,  p.  179. 

Consult  the  list  of  inscriptions  on  ancient  works  of  art  in 
Mar.  Gudius.  (ad  Phaedri  fab.  v.  lib.  i.),  and,  in  connection 
with  that,  the  correction  made  by  Gronovius.  (Praef,  ad  Tom. 
ix.  Thesauri  Antiq.  Graec.) 

Note  55,  p.  182. 

PIe  at  least  expressly  promises  to  do  so : “quae  suis  locis  red* 
dam  ” (which  I shall  speak  of  in  their  proper  place).  But  if  this 
was  not  wholly  forgotten,  it  was  at  least  done  very  cursorily,  and 
not  at  all  in  the  way  this  promise  had  led  us  to  expect.  When  he 
writes  (lib.  xxxv.  sect.  39),  “Lysippus  quoque  ^Eginae  picturae 
suae  inscripsit,  ivemvoev ; quod  profecto  non  fecisset,  nisi 
encaustica  inventa,”  he  evidently  uses  kvinavasv  to  prove 


NOTES. 


24I 


something  quite  different.  If  he  meant,  as  Hardouin  sup- 
poses, to  indicate  in  this  passage  one  of  the  works  whose 
inscription  was  written  in  definite  past  time,  it  would  have 
been  worth  his  while  to  put  in  a word  to  that  effect.  Har- 
douin finds  reference  to  the  other  two  works  in  the  follow- 
ing passage : “ Idem  (Divus  Augustus)  in  Curia  quoque, 
quam  in  Comitio  consecrabat,  duas  tabulas  impressit  parieti : 
Nemeam  sedentem  supra  leonem,  palmigeram  ipsam,  adstante 
cum  baculo  sene,  cujus  supra  caput  tabula  bigae  dependet. 
Nicias  scripsit  se  inussisse  ; tali  enim  usus  est  verbo.  Alterius 
tabulae  admiratio  est,  puberem  filium  seni  patri  similem  esse, 
salva  aetatis  differentia,  supervolante  aquila  draconem  com- 
plexa.  Philochares  hoc  suum  opus  esse  testatus  est.”  (Lib. 
xxxv.  sect.  10.)  Two  different  pictures  are  here  described 
which  Augustus  had  set  up  in  the  newly  built  senate-house.  The 
second  was  by  Philochares,  the  first  by  Nicias.  All  that  is  said 
of  the  picture  by  Philochares  is  plain  and  clear,  but  there  are 
certain  difficulties  in  regard  to  the  other.  It  represented  Nemea 
seated  on  a lion,  a palm-branch  in  her  hand,  and  near  her  an  old 
man  with  a staff : “ cujus  supra  caput  tabula  bigae  dependet.” 
What  is  the  meaning  of  that  ? “ over  his  head  hung  a tablet 
on  which  was  painted  a two-horse  chariot.”  That  is  the 
only  meaning  the  words  will  bear.  Was  there,  then,  a 
smaller  picture  hung  over  the  large  one  ? and  were  both  by 
Nicias?  Hardouin  must  so  have  understood  it,  else  where 
were  the  two  pictures  by  Nicias,  since  the  other  is  expressly 
ascribed  to  Philochares?  “ Inscripsit  Nicias  igitur  geminae 
huic  tabulae  suum  nomen  in  hunc  modum : 'ON1KIA2  ENE- 
KAY2EN : atque  adeo  e tribus  operibus,  quae  absolute  fuisse 
inscripta,  ILLE  FECIT,  indicavit  Praefatio  ad  Titum,  duo 
haec  sunt  Niciae.”  I should  like  to  ask  Hardouin  one  ques- 
tion. If  Nicias  had  really  used  the  indefinite,  and  not  the 
definite  past  tense,  and  Pliny  had  merely  wished  to  say  that 
the  master,  instead  of  ypafciv,  had  used  kyuaLELv , would  he  not 
still  have  been  obliged  to  say  in  Latin,  “ Nicias  scripsit  se 
inussisse  ? ” But  I will  not  insist  upon  this  point.  Pliny  may 
really  have  meant  to  indicate  here  one  of  the  three  works 

16 


242 


NOTES. 


before  referred  to.  But  who  will  be  induced  to  believe  that 
there  were  two  pictures,  placed  one  above  the  other?  Not  I 
for  one.  The  words  “ cujus  supra  caput  tabula  bigae  depen- 
ded must  be  a corruption.  “Tabula  bigae,”  a picture  of 
a two-horse  chariot,  does  not  sound  much  like  Pliny,  although 
Pliny  does  elsewhere  use  “biga”  in  the  singular.  What  sort 
of  a two-horse  chariot  ? Such  as  were  used  in  the  races  at  the 
Nemaean  games,  so  that  this  little  picture  should,  from  its 
subject,  be  related  to  the  chief  one  ? That  cannot  be  ; for  not 
two  but  four  horse  chariots  were  usual  in  the  Nemaean  games. 
(Schmidius  in  Prol.  ad  Nemeonicas,  p.  2.)  At  one  time,  I 
thought  that  Pliny  might,  instead  of  “bigae,”  have  written  a 
Greek  word,  tctvx'iov , which  the  copyists  did  not  understand. 
For  we  know,  from  a passage  in  Antigonus  Carystius,  quoted 
by  Zenobius  (conf.  Gronovius,  T.  ix.  Antiquit.  Graec.  Praef. 
p.  7),  that  the  old  artists  did  not  always  put  their  name  on 
the  work  itself,  but  sometimes  on  a separate  tablet,  attached 
to  the  picture  or  statue,  and  this  tablet  was  called  tztvx'cov. 
The  word  “ tabula,  tabella,”  might  have  been  written  in  the 
margin  in  explanation  of  the  Greek  word,  and  at  last  have 
crept  into  the  text.  tttvxIov  was  turned  into  “bigae,”  and  so 
we  get  “tabula  bigae.”  This  txtvx'lov  agrees  perfectly  with 
what  follows;  for  the  next  sentence  contains  what  was  written 
on  it.  The  whole  passage  would  then  read  thus:  “cujus 
supra  caput  n tvxlov  dependet,  quo  Nicias  scripsit  se  inussisse.” 
My  correction  is  rather  a bold  one,  I acknowledge.  Need  a 
critic  feel  obliged  to  suggest  the  proper  reading  for  every  pas- 
sage that  he  can  prove  to  be  corrupted  ? I will  rest  content 
with  having  done  the  latter,  and  leave  the  former  to  some 
more  skilful  hand.  But  to  return  to  the  subject  under  discus- 
sion. If  Pliny  be  here  speaking  of  but  a single  picture  by 
Nicias,  on  which  he  had  inscribed  his  name  in  definite  past 
time,  and  if  the  second  picture  thus  inscribed  be  the  above- 
mentioned  one  of  Lysippus,  where  is  the  third  ? That  I cannot 
tell.  If  I might  look  for  it  elsewhere  among  the  old  writers, 
the  question  were  easily  answered.  But  it  ought  to  be  found 
in  Pliny ; and  there,  I repeat,  I am  entirely  unable  to  dis« 
cover  it. 


NOTES. 


243 


Note  56,  p.  186. 

Thus  Statius  says  “obnixa  pectora”  (Thebaid.  lib.  vi.  v. 
863) : 

. . . rumpunt  obnixa  furentes 
Pectora. 

which  the  old  commentator  of  Barths  explains  by  “summa  vi 
contra  nitentia.”  Thus  Ovid  says  (Halievt.  v.  ii.),  “obnixa 
fronte,”  when  describing  the  “scarus”  trying  to  force  its  way 
through  the  fish-trap,  not  with  his  head,  but  with  his  tail. 

Non  audet  radiis  obnixa  occurrere  fronte. 

Note  57,  p.  192. 

Geschichte  der  Kunst,  part  ii.  p.  328.  “He  produced  the 
Antigone,  his  first  tragedy,  in  the  third  year  of  the  seventy- 
seventh  Olympiad.”  The  time  is  tolerably  exact,  but  it  is 
quite  a mistake  to  suppose  that  this  first  tragedy  was  the 
Antigone.  Neither  is  it  so  called  by  Samuel  Petit,  whom 
Winkelmann  quotes  in  a note.  He  expressly  puts  the  Antig- 
one in  the  third  year  of  the  eighty-fourth  Olympiad.  The 
following  year,  Sophocles  went  with  Pericles  to  Samos,  and 
the  year  of  this  expedition  can  be  determined  with  exactness. 
In  my  life  of  Sophocles,  I show,  from  a comparison  with 
a passage  of  the  elder  Pliny,  that  the  first  tragedy  of  this 
author  was  probably  Triptolemus.  (Lib.  xviii.  sect.  12.) 
Pliny  is  speaking  of  the  various  excellence  of  the  fruits  of 
different  countries,  and  concludes  thus  : “ Hoe  fuere  sententiae, 
Alexandro  magno  regnante,  cum  clarissima  fuit  Graecia,  atque 
in  toto  terrarum  orbe  potentissima ; ita  tamen  ut  ante  mortem 
ejus  annis  fere  CXLV.  Sophocles  poeta  in  fabula  Triptolemo 
frumentum  Italicum  ante  cuncta  laudaverit,  ad  verbum  trans- 
lata  sententia : 

Et  fortunatam  Italiam  frumento  canere  candido.” 

He  is  here  not  necessarily  speaking  of  the  first  tragedy  of 
Sophocles,  to  be  sure.  But  the  date  of  that,  fixed  by  Plu- 
tarch, the  scholiast,  and  the  Arundelian  marbles,  as  the  seventy- 


244 


NOTES. 


seventh  Olympiad,  corresponds  so  exactly  with  the  date  assigned 
by  Pliny  to  the  Triptolemus,  that  we  can  hardly  help  regarding 
that  as  the  first  of  Sophocles’  tragedies.  The  calculation  is 
easily  made.  Alexander  died  in  the  hundred  and  fourteenth 
Olympiad.  One  hundred  and  forty-five  years  cover  thirty-six 
Olympiads  and  one  year,  which  subtracted  from  the  total,, 
gives  seventy-seven.  The  Triptolemus  of  Sophocles  appeared 
in  the  seventy-seventh  Olympiad ; the  last  year  of  this  same 
Olympiad  is  the  date  of  his  first  tragedy : we  may  naturally 
conclude,  therefore,  that  these  tragedies  are  one.  I show  at 
the  same  time  that  Petit  might  have  spared  himself  the  writing 
of  the  whole  half  of  the  chapter  in  his  “ Miscellanea  ” which 
Winkelmann  quotes  (xviii.  lib.  iii.).  In  the  passage  of  Pliny, 
which  he  thinks  to  amend,  it  is  quite  unnecessary  to  change 
the  name  of  the  Archon  Aphepsion  into  Demotion,  or  aveipiog . 
He  need  only  have  looked  from  the  third  to  the  fourth  year  of 
the  seventy-seventh  Olympiad  to  find  that  the  Archon  of  that 
year  was  called  Aphepsion  by  the  ancient  authors  quite  as 
often  as  Phaedon,  if  not  oftener.  He  is  called  Phaedon  by 
Diodorus  Siculus,  Dionysius  Halicarnassus,  and  the  anonymous 
author  of  the  table  of  the  Olympiads ; while  the  Arundelian 
marbles,  Apollodorus,  and,  quoting  him,  Diogenes  Laertius, 
call  him  Aphepsion.  Plutarch  calls  him  by  both  names ; 
Phaedon  in  the  life  of  Theseus  and  Aphepsion  in  the  life  of 
Cimon.  It  is  therefore  probable,  as  Palmerius  supposes, 
“ Aphepsionem  et  Phaedonem  Archontas  fuisse  eponymos ; 
scilicet,  uno  in  magistratu  mortuo,  suffectus  fuit  alter.”  (Exer- 
cit.  p.  452.)  This  reminds  me  that  Winkelmann,  in  his  first 
work  on  the  imitation  of  Greek  art,  allowed  an  error  to  creep 
in  with  regard  to  Sophocles.  “The  most  beautiful  of  the 
youths  danced  naked  in  the  theatre,  and  Sophocles,  the  great 
Sophocles,  was  in  his  youth  the  first  to  show  himself  thus  to 
his  fellow-citizens.”  Sophocles  never  danced  naked  on  the 
stage.  He  danced  around  the  trophies  after  the  victory  of 
Salamis,  according  to  some  authorities  naked,  but  according  to 
others  clothed.  (Athen.  lib.  i.  p.  m.  20.)  Sophocles  was  one 
of  the  boys  who  w^is  brought  for  safety  to  Salamis,  and  on 


NOTES. 


245 


this  island  it  pleased  the  tragic  muse  to  assemble  her  three 
favorites  in  a gradation  typical  of  their  future  career.  The 
bold  iEschylus  helped  gain  the  victory ; the  blooming  Sopho- 
cles danced  around  the  trophies;  and  on  the  same  happy 
island,  on  the  very  day  of  the  victory,  Euripides  was  bom 


INDEX. 


Achilles,  sceptre  of,  98;  shield  of,  113. 

Action,  culminating  point  of  an,  not  the  point  to  be  represented  by  the 
artist,  16. 

Albani,  Cardinal  Alexander,  his  discovery  of  a vase  which  illustrated 
the  date  of  the  Laocoon,  1 78  et  seq. 

Anacreon,  two  odes  of,  133,  139. 

Apelles,  his  picture  of  Diana,  143. 

Ariosto,  his  description  of  Alcina,  128,  138. 

Aristophanes,  element  of  disgust  used  by,  161. 

Aristotle,  advice  of,  to  Protogenes,  76;  his  reason  why  we  receive 
pleasure  from  a faithful  copy  of  the  disagreeable,  154. 

Art  should  express  nothing  essentially  transitory,  17. 

Arts  among  the  ancients,  subject  to  the  control  of  law,  10. 

Bacchus,  how  represented  in  poetry  and  painting,  56  et  seq. 

Beauty,  the  supreme  law  of  the  imitative  arts,  1 1 ; subordinated  in 
modern  art  to  other  ends,  16 ; representations  of  physical,  the  prov- 
ince of  painting,  not  of  poetry,  126. 

Boivin,  his  explanations  of  Homer,  118,  121. 

Calaber,  Quintus,  his  rendering  of  the  story  of  Laocoon,  34;  his 
account  of  the  death  of  Thersites,  150. 

Callimachus,  his  picture  of  famine,  165. 

Caricature,  law  against,  among  the  Thebans,  9. 

Caylus,  Count,  some  points  in  his  work  considered,  71,  77,  80,  8a,  86, 
87,  93 ; his  sketch  for  a picture  of  Helen,  140. 

Chateaubrun,  his  representation  of  Philoctetes,  25. 

Cicero,  his  views  in  regard  to  bodily  pain,  28. 

Cleyn,  Francis,  illustrations  by,  39. 


248 


INDEX. 


Constancy,  how  represented  in  art,  68  et  seq. 

Dacier,  Madame,  her  translation  of  Homer,  113. 

Dante,  his  description  of  the  starvation  of  Ugolino,  166. 

Deformity,  physical,  in  art,  produces  disgust,  159. 

Disgust  produced  more  through  the  other  senses  than  through  that  at 
sight,  160 ; object  of,  in  painting,  167. 

Disgusting,  the,  its  use  in  expressing  the  horror  of  famine,  164. 

Dolce,  his  dialogue  on  Painting,  131. 

Drama,  expression  of  suffering  in  the,  21  et  seq. 

Dryden,  his  Ode  on  Cecilia’s  Day,  89. 

Flaccus,  Valerius,  his  description  of  an  angry  Venus,  57  et  seq* 

French  language,  not  adapted  to  translation  of  Homer,  112. 

German  language,  compared  to  the  Greek,  113. 

Gladiator,  Borghese,  the  author’s  theory  in  regard  to  the,  184  et  «f. 

Gladiatorial  shows,  effect  of,  29. 

Haller,  Von,  description  quoted  from  his  “Alps,”  103. 

Hercules,  as  represented  by  Sophocles,  6 ; the,  of  Sophocles,  31. 

Hogarth,  his  criticism  of  the  Apollo  Belvidere,  145. 

Homer,  expressions  of  pail  in  his  heroes,  4 ; representation  of  his 
heroes,  79  et  seq. ; his  descriptions  not  generally  available  for 
pictures,  83,  143;  his  picture  of  Pandarus,  89;  style  of,  93;  his 
description  of  the  chariot  of  Juno,  94 ; his  description  of  the 
sceptre  of  Agamemnon,  95  ; of  the  shield  of  Achilles,  98,  113,  118 ; 
of  the  bow  of  Pandarus,  99 ; his  indebtedness  to  the  flexibility  of 
the  Greek  language,  112;  his  description  of  the  beleaguered  city, 
121 ; avoids  detailed  description,  127;  his  representation  of  Helen, 
136;  his  Thersites,  148  et  seq. 

Imitations  of  the  poet  by  the  artist  and  the  reverse,  49  et  seq. 

Invention  required  less  of  the  artist  than  of  the  poet,  72  et  seq. 

Junius,  Francis,  an  unsafe  authority,  188. 

Juno,  how  represented  in  ancient  art,  57. 

Kleist,  Von,  his  own  judgment  of  his  poem  “ Spring, M 108. 

Klotzius,  on  the  effects  of  different  forms  of  the  disagreeable  in  art,  15& 

Laocoon,  of  Virgil,  20  et  seq. ; compared  with  the  statue,  36  et  t>q. ; 
contains  traits  unavailable  for  the  artist,  42 ; the  group  of,  possibly 
suggested  by  Virgil’s  description,  43  et  seq. ; the,  probable  dzit  of, 
1 70  et  seq. 

Longinus,  his  remarks  in  regard  tc  eloquence  and  poetry,  188. 

Lucian  represents  physical  beauty  by  comparison  with  statues,  135. 


INDEX. 


249 


Manasses,  Constantinus,  his  pictures  of  Helen,  127. 

Martiani,  his  opinion  in  regard  to  the  date  of  the  Laocoon,  34  et  seq 

Mazzuoli,  his  “ Rape  of  the  Sabines,”  109. 

Mengs,  his  criticism  on  Raphael’s  drapery,  no. 

Milton  furnishes  few  subjects  for  a painter,  87. 

Minerva,  how  represented  in  ancient  art,  57,  78. 

Montfaucon,  his  want  of  taste,  14 ; his  opinions  in  regard  to  the  date 
of  the  Laocoon,  33  et  seq. 

Olympic  judges,  law  of  the,  10. 

Ovid,  his  description  of  Lesbia,  137 ; his  description  of  the  punish- 
ment of  Marsyas,  163 ; his  picture  of  famine,  165. 

Pain,  expression  of,  in  Sophocles,  3 ; in  Homer,  4,  5 ; among  Euro- 
peans, 4 ; among  the  Greeks,  5 ; in  its  disfiguring  extreme,  not 
compatible  with  beauty,  13  ; expression  of,  among  the  English,  26. 

Painting  among  the  Greeks  confined  to  imitation  of  beauty,  8. 

Passion,  violent,  not  expressed  in  ancient  art,  12. 

Pauson,  character  of  his  pictures,  9. 

Phidias,  his  indebtedness  to  Homer,  144  et  seq. 

Philoctetes  of  Sophocles,  the,  his  sufferings  compared  with  those  of 
Laocoon,  3 ; the,  of  Pythagoras  Leontinus,  14 ; of  Sophocles,  the 
embodiment  of  physical  and  mental  suffering,  23,  24,  30. 

Picturesque,  the,  in  poetry,  88. 

Pisander,  possibly  Virgil’s  predecessor  in  the  history  of  Laocoon,  34. 

Pliny,  his  mention  of  the  Laocoon,  172;  of  famous  Greek  sculptors, 
173  et  seq . 

Poetry,  how  it  surpasses  art  in  description  of  physical  beauty,  137 
et  seq. 

Polygnotus,  pictures  of,  123  et  seq. 

Pope,  contempt  of,  for  descriptive  poems,  108 ; his  explanations  of 
Homer,  122  et  seq. 

Pordenone,  his  picture  of  the  entombment,  167, 

Pyreicus,  character  of  his  pictures,  9. 

Religion,  influence  of,  on  art,  62  et  seq. 

Richardson,  remarks  of,  on  Virgil’s  Laocoon,  45;  his  criticism  of 
Pordenone,  167. 

Ridiculous,  the,  heightened  by  an  element  of  disgust,  161. 

Sadolet,  extract  from,  46. 

Shakespeare,  his  use  of  ugliness  in  the  character  of  Richard  III., 
I5I* 


250 


INDEX. 


Sophocles,  a Laocoon  among  his  lost  works,  6 ; his  description  of  the 
desert  cave  of  Philoctetes,  163. 

Spence,  Rev.  Mr.,  criticism  of  his  work  “ Polymetis, ” 50;  notions  of, 
in  regard  to  the  resemblance  between  painting  and  poetry,  55,  57 

Statius,  his  description  of  an  angry  Venus,  57  et  seq. 

Statues,  beautiful,  produced  beautiful  men,  10. 

Stoicism  not  adapted  to  the  drama,  6. 

Stosch,  Herr  von,  his  opinion  of  the  Borghese  Gladiator,  183. 

Symbols,  use  of,  in  poetry  and  painting,  67  et  seq . 

Temperance,  how  represented  in  art,  68  et  seq. 

Timanthes,  picture  of  Iphigenia  by,  12. 

Timomachus,  his  representations  of  Ajax  and  Medea,  18. 

Titian,  his  picture  of  the  Prodigal  Son,  109. 

Ugliness,  as  used  in  poetry,  149,  156 ; as  used  in  painting,  153,  15&, 

Urania,  how  represented  in  art,  67. 

Vesta,  how  worshipped,  64  et  seq. 

Virgil,  description  from  the  Georgies,  106 ; his  description  of  the  shield 
of  A£neas,  114 ; the  Dido  of,  133;  his  introduction  of  the  Harpies, 
166. 

Winkelmann,  quoted,  1 ; soundness  of  his  criticism  doubted,  2 ; his 
opinion  of  the  Laocoon,  168 ; his  opinion  of  the  Borghese  Gladiator, 
183 ; criticism  of,  187  et  seq. 

Zeuxis,  his  picture  of  Helen,  140  et  seq 


HOW  TO  WRITE  CLEARLY. 

Rules  and  Exercises  on  English  Composition.  By  the 
Rev.  Edwin  A.  Abbott,  M.A.,  Head  Master  of  the  City  of 
London  School.  One  vol.  i6mo.  Cloth.  Price,  60  cents. 

CONTENTS 

Index  of  Rules,  Rules,  Short  Exercises,  Continuous  Ex- 
ercises, — Clarendon,  Burnet,  Butler,  Sir  Archibald  Alison. 

Almost  every  English  boy  can  be  taught  to  write  clearly,  so  far 
at  least  as  clearness  depends  upon  the  arrangement  of  words. 
Force,  elegance,  and  variety  of  style  are  more  difficult  to  teach, 
and  far  more  difficult  to  learn  ; but  clear  writing  can  be  reduced  to 
rules.  To  teach  the  art  of  writing  clearly  is  the  main  object  of 
these  Rules  and  Exercises. 

“ Mr.  Abbott’s  little  book  is  one  of  the  best  manuals  ever  published ; helpful 
to  teachers  as  well  as  pupils,  and  ‘ a miracle  ’ of  condensation.  There  should  be 
at  least  one  copy  of  it  in  every  family  library.”  — Christian  Register. 

“The  careful  study  of  this  little  book  will  prove  helpful  even  to  practised 
■writers,  who,  notwithstanding  that  they  know  better,  are  liable  to  acquire  bad 
babits,  that  are  continued  until  they  are  pointedly  reminded  of  their  carelessness.  ” 
— A dvertiser . 

“ This  is  a practical  rhetoric.  It  contains  numerous  rules  for  the  correct  use 
of  the  words  and  phrases  most  commonly  misused  in  English,  with  examples, 
cautions,  and  explanations.  The  arrangement  is  as  follows  : Clearness  and  Force 
in  the  Use  of  Words ; Order  of  Words  in  a Sentence ; Exercises ; Continuous 
Exercises.  This  last  consists  of  passages  from  good  authors,  the  original  version 
in  one  column,  with  a parallel  version  of  superior  clearness  and  force.  To 
teachers,  whose  chief  implement  is  language,  the  work  will  be  suggestive  and 
improving.” — National  Teachers'  Monthly. 

**  It  is  a judicious  manual,  which  may  be  of  great  service  to  writers  whose 
power  of  expression  limps  behind  their  faculty  of  thought.  The  method  of  the 
author  is  to  present  a series  of  concise  rules,  which  are  afterward  illustrated  by 
a collection  of  exercises,  and  passages  from  eminent  English  writers,  whose 
defects  in  point  of  clearness  are  signalized  as  awful  examples  to  be  avoided  bj 
the  pupil.”  — N.  V.  Tribune. 

little,  brown,  and  company, 

Boston. 


HOW  TO  TELL  THE  PARTS  OP 

SPEECH. 


An  Introduction  to  English  Grammar.  By  Rev.  Edwin 
A.  Abbott,  D.D.,  Head  Master  of  the  City  of  London  School. 
American  Edition,  Revised  and  Enlarged  by  John  G.  R.  McElroy, 
Professor  of  the  English  Language  in  the  University  of  Pennsylva- 
nia. i6mo.  Cloth.  60  cents  net 

This  work  is  written  for  the  purpose  of  simplifying  the  study 
of  grammar.  Its  aim  is  to  teach  general  principles  with  thorough- 
ness, leaving  unimportant  details  for  the  acquisition  of  maturer 
years.  It  is  free  from  puzzling  technicalities,  is  founded  on  the 
methods  that  experience  has  shown  to  be  the  best  for  imparting 
information  to  youthful  minds,  and  is  greatly  in  advance  of  any 
book  that  has  appeared  on  the  same  subject.  The  author  goes  to 
the  very  bottom  of  things  and  shows  why  nouns  are  nouns,  anil 
adjectives  adjectives.  After  his  elucidation  of  the  subject,  gram- 
mar ceases  to  be  a “ study,”  and,  so  to  speak,  studies  itself. 

“This  suggestive  and,  in  many  respects,  original  work  is  the  product  of  Rev. 
Edwin  A.  Abbott,  D.  D.,  Head  Master  of  the  City  of  London  School,  ancj 
author  of  many  valuable  works  on  the  principles  of  grammar.  The  leading  theory 
of  the  writer  is,  that  young  children  may  be  taught,  first,  to  classify  English  words 
according  to  their  function  in  the  sentence,  and  then  to  infer  the  nature  of  each 
word  from  its  function  ; or,  in  other  words,  the  children  can  tell  first  what  the 
word  does , and  then  what  part  of  speech  the  word  is.  The  exercises  given  are  of 
the  very  best  kind,  and  are  designed  to  exemplify  the  rules  of  parsing.  It  is  a 
book  that  American  teachers  of  elementary  grammar  should  examine.  Its  meth- 
ods will  tend  to  relieve  the  study  of  grammar  from  being  a dull  and,  to  very  young 
pupils,  often  a mere  formal  drudgery.”  — New  England  Journal  of  Education. 

“This  book  of  Dr.  Abbott’s  is  favorably  known,  both  in  England  and 
America,  as  a concise  and  simple  introduction  to  English  grammar.  Professor 
John  G.  R.  McElroy,  teacher  of  English  in  the  University  of  Pennsylvania,  has 
attempted  in  this  edition  to  further  adapt  it  for  American  use  by  careful  revision 
and  judicious  enlargement.  His  work  appears  to  be  well  done.  The  principle 
upon  which  the  grammar  is  based  is  first  to  teach  the  facts  of  the  English  lan- 
guage, and  then  to  lead  the  child  to  construct  therefrom  his  own  grammar.  Every 
step  taken  is  secured  before  any  further  advance  is  made,  and  the  progress  of 
the  pupil  is  easy,  natural,  and  regular.  The  young  scholar  who  makes  this  little 
book  his  own  will  have  a far  better  appreciation  of  the  spirit  of  the  English 
language  than  the  pupil  who  has  industriously  got  by  heart  the  definitions  and 
rules  of  more  formal  and  minute  but  less  natural  grammars.”  — Philadelphia 
Press . 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY, 

Boston, 


HOW  TO  PARSE 


An  Attempt  to  apply  the  Principles  of  Scholarship 
TO  English  Grammar.  With  Appendixes  in  Analysis,  Spell- 
ing, and  Punctuation.  By  Edwin  A.  Abbott,  M.A.,  Head  Mas- 
ter of  the  City  of  London  School.  i6mo.  Cloth.  75  cents  net. 

“ We  recommend  this  little  book  to  the  careful  attention  of  teachers  and  others 
interested  in  instruction.  In  the  hands  of  an  able  teacher,  the  book  should  help 
to  relieve  parsing  from  the  reproach  of  being  the  bane  of  the  school-room.  The 
Etymological  Glossary  of  Grammatical  Terms  will  also  supply  a long-felt  want.” 
N.  Y.  Nation. 

44  4 How  to  Parse*  is  likely  to  prove  to  teachers  a valuable,  and  to  scholars 
an  agreeable,  substitute  for  most  of  the  grammars  in  common  use.” — Boston 
Daily  A dvertiser. 

“The  Rev.  E.  A.  Abbott,  whose  books,  'English  Lessons  for  English 
People,*  and 4 How  to  Write  Clearly,’  have  been  accepted  as  standard  text-books 
on  both  sides  of  the  ocean,  has  added  another  work  to  his  list  of  sensible  treatises 
on  the  use  of  English.  It  is  called 4 How  to  Parse,’  and  is  best  described  by  the 
further  title,  4 An  Attempt  to  apply  the  Principles  of  Scholarship  to  English 
Grammar,  with  Appendices  on  Analysis,  Spelling  and  Punctuation.’  The  little 
book  is  so  sensible  and  so  simple  that  the  greater  number  of  its  readers  will  per- 
haps forget  to  observe  that  it  is  profoundly  philosophical  also,  but  it  is  so  in  the 
best  sense  of  the  term.” — N.  Y.  Evening  Post . 

44  Of  all  subjects  of  study,  it  maybe  safely  admitted  that  grammar  possesses  as 
a rule  the  fewest  attractions  for  the  youthful  mind.  To  prepare  a work  capable 
of  imparting  a thorough  knowledge  of  this  important  part  of  education  in  an 
attractive  and  entertaining  form,  to  many  may  appear  extremely  difficult,  if  not 
impossible;  nevertheless,  the  task  has  been  accomplished  in  a highly  successful 
manner  by  Edwin  A.  Abbott,  Head  Master  of  the  City  of  London  School,  in  a 
neat  little  volume  entitled 4 How  to  Parse.*  The  author  has  succeeded  admirably 
in  combining  with  the  exercises  a vast  amount  of  useful  information,  which 
imparts  to  the  principles  and  rules  of  the  main  subjects  a degree  of  interest  that 
renders  the  study  as  attractive  as  history  or  fiction.  The  value  of  the  book  is 
greatly  increased  by  an  excellent  glossary  of  grammatical  forms  and  a nicely 
arranged  index.  The  work  deserves  the  attention  and  consideration  of  teachers 
and  pupils,  and  will  doubtless  prove  a highly  popular  addition  to  the  list  of 
school-books.” — N.  Y.  Graphic . 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY, 

Boston. 


ENGLISH  LESSONS 

For  English  People.  By  the  Rev.  Edwin  A.  Abbott, 
M.A.,  Head  Master  of  the  City  of  London  School ; and  J.  R. 
Seeley,  M.A.,  Professor  of  Modern  History  in  the  Univers:ty  of 
Cambridge.  Part  I.,  Vocabulary.  Part  II.,  Diction.  Part  III., 
Metre.  Part  IV.,  Hints  on  Selection  and  Arrangement.  Appen- 
dix. One  vol.  i6mo.  Cloth.  Price,  $1.00  net. 

“ Some  degree  of  knowledge  is  presumed  in  the  reader;  nevertheless  we 
do  not  presume  that  he  possesses  so  much  as  to  render  him  incapable  of 
profiting  from  lessons.  Our  object  is,  if  possible,  not  merely  to  interest, 
but  to  teach;  to  write  lessons,  not  essays,  — lessons  that  may  perhaps 
prove  interesting  to  some  who  have  passed  beyond  the  routine  of  school 
life,  but  still  lessons,  in  the  strictest  sense,  adapted  for  school  classes. 

“ Aiming  at  practical  utility,  the  book  deals  only  with  those  difficulties 
which,  in  the  course  of  teaching,  we  have  found  to  be  most  common  and 
most  serious.  For  there  are  many  difficulties,  even  when  grammatical 
accuracy  has  been  attained,  in  the  way  of  English  persons  attempting  to 
write  and  speak  correctly.”  — Preface. 

“ The  whole  spirit  of  the  book  is  an  effort  to  inculcate  a plain,  simple, 
and  straightforward  style  of  writing.  It  is  an  unbending  foe  to  periphrases, 
circumlocution,  and  that  ‘ scrappy  ’ method  that  is  so  prevalent  at  the  present 
time.  It  should  be  in  every  student’s  library.  Its  style  is  clear  and  manly;  and, 
taken  as  a whole,  it  is  one  of  the  best  works  on  rhetoric  that  has  appeared  for 
many  a day.”  — Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

“ This  is  certainly  a very  valuable  book,  if  not  as  a text-book  in  schools,  at 
an  aid  to  the  teacher ; and  a most  important  help  to  all  who  desire  to  attain  to 
perspicuity  and  ease  in  writing  and  speaking.  It  seeks  to  remove  the  difficulties 
under  which  not  a few,  who  esteem  themselves  scholars,  labor,  from  an  insufficient 
vocabulary,  lack  of  appreciation  of  the  differences  between  words  that  are  similar, 
&c.,  &c. ; and  to  cure  the  pedantry  which,  to  avoid  tautology,  or  from  love  of 
display,  shuns  the  use  of  plain,  honest  Saxon,  and  falls  into  * poetic  prose.’  Sim- 
ple in  arrangement,  clear  in  definition,  and  exact  in  statement,  the  reader  cannot 
fail  to  see  his  own  deficiencies  and  the  means  of  their  correction.  It  is  just  the 
book  for  fine  writers  to  study,  and  for  turgid  orators  to  regard.”  — New  Bedford 
Mercury. 

‘‘While  modestly  introduced  as  an  aid  for  teachers,  and  therefore  as  in® 
tended  for  pupils  in  attaining  a correct  use  of  the  English  language,  there  are, 
we  apprehend,  many  among  the  teachers  who  will  find  as  much  substantial  as 
Accessory  value  in  this  treatise,  and  pupils  older  than  those  measured  by  the 
technical  limitations  of  the  term.  . . . Beginners  will  find  the  work  almost  with- 
out an  equivalent,  certainly  without  a superior  for  it  in  design. ' — North 
American* 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY, 

Boston. 


ABBOTT'S 


PARAGRAPH  HISTORIES. 


A Paragraph  History  of  the  United  States  from  thb 
Discovery  of  the  Continent  to  the  Present  Time.  With 
Brief  Notes  on  Contemporaneous  Events.  Chronologically  ar- 
ranged. By  Edward  Abbott.  Square  i8mo.  Cloth.  50  cents. 

u As  an  aid  to  students,  the  book  seems  excellently  adapted.”  — Gazette . 

" We  recommend  it  as  the  first  history  to  be  used  in  our  public  and  private 
schools.”  — Philadelphia  Press. 

14  It  will  be  admirable  for  reviews  and  examinations  in  our  high  schools  and 
academies.  We  heartily  commend  it  to  our  teachers.”  — Zion's  Herald. 

u The  design  is  good,  the  performance  good,  and  the  work  will  be  found  very 
aseful  to  beginners  and  convenient  to  advanced  students  in  history.”  — Philadel- 
phia North  A meric  an. 

u The  facts  are  accurate,  and  as  a guide-book  it  will  be  found  one  of  the  best 
in  the  country.  We  cordially  commend  it  to  schools.  Children  will  learn  more 
from  this  book  in  a day  than  from  a larger  one  in  a month.”  — Philadelphia 
City  Item. 

A Paragraph  History  of  the  American  Revolution. 
By  Edward  Abbott.  i8mo.  Cloth.  Price  50  cents. 

Here  is  the  whole  story  of  the  American  Revolution  in  its  briefest  form,  in 
a neat,  handy  volume  with  maps  and  index.  To  be  brief  about  it,  it  comprises 
a history  of  the  colonial  difficulties  and  struggles  in  so  small  a space  as  to  make 
the  whole  story  retainable.  The  author  has  worked  up  admirably  to  his  plan; 
▼it.,  to  write  “ for  those  who  have  never  read  a history  proper,  or  who  have 
heard  only  by  chance  of  what  our  country’s  fathers  did,  and  in  these  busy  times 
have  only  moments  by  the  way  in  which  to  trace  the  outline.”  It  is  a little 
volume,  also,  that  will  be  especially  valuable  in  schools.  The  appendix  con- 
tains among  other  interesting  items  a list  of  the  more  important  works  relating  to 
the  Revolution ; and  ar  index  adds  to  the  value  of  the  book,  which  is  an  actua.' 
need  in  these  days. 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY, 

Boston. 


SARAH  TYTLER’S  ART  BOOKS, 


The  Old  Masters  and  their  Pictures. 

Modern  Painters  and  their  Paintings. 

By  Sarah  Tytler,  author  of  “ Papers  for  Thoughtful  Girls.* 
i6mo.  Cloth,  neat.  Price  of  each,  $1.50. 

Designed  for  the  use  of  Schools  and  Learners  in  Art,  and  extensively  used  is 
Academies,  Seminaries,  &c.,  throughout  the  country. 

“ An  excellent  introduction  to  the  history  of  art”  — Daily  Newt. 

“ These  two  books  give  in  a simple  and  concise  manner  the  prominent  tacts 
that  every  one  who  desires  to  be  well  informed  should  know  about  the  great 
artists  of  the  world.  For  beginners  in  art  and  for  school  use  they  are  valuable." 
— Courier-Journal , 

“ Really  supplies  what  has  long  been  a want.”  — British  Quarterly  Review . 

“We  are  not  aware  of  any  work  of  the  kind  written  with  so  much  intelligence 
which  yet  is  so  untechnical.”-—  Nonconformist. 

“ Too  much  praise  cannot  be  given  the  conscientious  manner  in  which  the 
author  has  worked.  There  is  no  obtrusion  of  useless  details  or  of  unwelcome 
criticism ; but  in  very  pleasant  style,  with  clear  and  well-defined  purpose,  the 
story  of  the  growth  and  progress  of  art  is  told  through  the  lives  and  works  o 
artists.  The  volumes  are  most  agreeable  reading  and  profitable  study.”  - 
Boston  Post. 

Musical  Composers  and  their  Works. 

For  the  Use  of  Schools  and  Students  in  America.  B* 
Sarah  Tytler.  i vol.  i6mo.  $1.50. 

In  this  unostentatious  but  carefully  written  volume,  the  author  of  " 01 
Masters”  and  “Modern  Painters”  has  given  a simple  account  of  the  grer. 
musicians  of  the  world  and  of  their  works.  The  book  is  designed  more  especial!, 
for  the  use  of  young  people  in  the  course  of  their  musical  education,  but  th* 
author  trusts  — and  with  very  good  reason  — that  it  will  commend  itself  also  t< 
older  people,  who  are  interested  in  the  subject,  but  who  lave  not  time  or  oppo« 
tunity  to  refer  to  original  sources  of  information.  Not  the  least  attractive  portiot 
of  the  work  is  the  sketch  of  'Vagner  with  which  it  closes. 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  COMPANY, 

Boston. 


SANSKRIT  AND  ITS  KINDRED 
LITERATURES. 

STUDIES  IN  COMPARATIVE  MYTHOLOGY. 

By  LAURA  ELIZABETH  POOR. 

i6mo.  Cloth.  400  pages  ....  Price,  $2.00. 

■ ♦- — 

The  book  goes  over  ground  which  has  been  made  new  by  the  modern  dis- 
coveries in  philology  and  mythology.  It  describes  and  compares  the  literatures  of 
the  different  Aryan  families,  and  brings  forward  the  comparative  mythology,  as  it 
manifests  itself  in  each  different  country,  filling  a place  which  is  almost  empty  in 
that  department,  and  giving  in  a brief  space  information  which  is  scattered 
through  hundreds  of  different  volumes.  In  fact,  there  is  no  one  book  which  con- 
tains just  what  this  does,  — a sketch  of  comparative  mythology,  with  history 
enough  to  make  it  clear  and  connected.  It  creates  and  fills  a place  of  its  own. 

Rev.  Dr.  F.  H.  Hedge,  of  Harvard  University,  Cambridge,  says  of  it : — 

“The  unpretending  volume  with  the  above  title  is  just  what  was  needed  to 
popularize  the  results  of  the  researches  of  such  scholars  as  Wilson,  Spiegel, 
Gnram,  Monier  Williams,  Muller,  Whitney,  and  others,  and  to  place  them  within 
easy  reach  of  readers  who  may  not  have  access  to  those  writers.  The  author’s 
task  seems  to  have  been  well  executed ; she  has  produced  an  entertaining  and 
instructive  work,  full  of  interesting  matter,  illustrated  by  choice  extracts,  and  writ- 
ten in  an  easy  and  animated  style.  Such  books,  of  course,  are  not  consulted  as 
final  authorities,  but  this  is  well  worth  reading  by  all  who  desire  an  initial  ac- 
quaintance with  the  subjects  discussed.” 

“One  of  the  chief  merits  of  the  volume  is  the  clearness  with  which  the  author 
expresses  her  thoughts,  and  the  skill  with  which  she  disentangles  the  subtleties  of 
metaphysical  and  religious  doctrines,  making  them  plain  to  the  most  casual 
reader.’’  — Boston  Courier. 

“ The  book,  of  course,  is  an  elementary  one,  but  it  must  be  valuable  to  the 
young  student  who  desires  to  get  a complete  view  of  literature  and  of  the  recip- 
rocal relations  of  its  various  divisions.  It  can  hardly  fail  to  interest  the  reader  in 
the  new  science  of  which  it  gives  results,  and  lead  him  to  more  exhaustive  studies 
for  himself.  If  such  a work  could  be  made  a school  text-book  it  would  give 
pupils  a long  start  in  their  pursuit  of  a correct  and  systematic  knowledge  of  lan- 
guage and  literature.”  — Buffalo  Courier. 

“ Let  no  intelligent  reader  be  deterred  from  its  diligent  perusal  by  the  learned 
name  which  introduces  the  interesting  book  now  offered  to  the  public  to  illustrate 
studies  in  comparative  mythology.  The  word  Sanskrit  has  an  abstruse  sound  to 
unenlightened  ears,  but  there  is  nothing  abstruse  in  the  subject  as  here  presented, 
and  nothing  difficult  to  be  understood  by  persons  of  ordinary  culture.  . . . The 
writer’s  treatment  of  the  subject  is  much  to  be  commended.  It  is  bright,  fresh, 
earnest,  and  strong.  She  arouses  the  reader’s  attention  from  the  beginning, 
charms  his  imagination  by  choice  extracts  from  the  literary  treasures  of  past  ages, 
pleases  his  taste  by  drawing  parallelisms  between  the  myths  of  the  past  and  the 
fables  of  the  present,  convinces  him  that  one  literature  unites  different  nations 
and  different  centuries,  and  that  each  nation  is  a link  in  the  great  chain  of  devel- 
opment of  the  human  mind.  We  earnestly  commend  this  work  to  all  who  would 
understand  the  unity  and  continuity  of  literature.  It  is  full  of  general  information 
and  instruction,  the  style  is  earnest  and  easy,  the  enthusiasm  sympathetic,  and 
the  presentation  specially  thought-stirring  and  satisfactory.”  — Providence 
Vour?tal. 


LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY, 

Boston. 


THE 


GREAT  EPICS  OF  MEDIEVAL  GERMANY, 


An  Outline  of  their  Contents  and  History.  By 
George  Theodore  Dippold,  Ph.D.,  of  the  Massachusetts 
Institute  of  Technology.  Second  Edition,  Revised.  i6mo. 
Cloth.  Price,  $1.50. 

Prof.  Child,  of  Harvard  College,  recommends  the  work  for  use  in  schools 
and  universities,  and  says : 

“ It  is  an  excellent  account  of  the  chief  German  heroic  poems  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  accompanied  with  spirited  translations.  It  is  a book  which  gives  both  a 
brief  and  popular  and  also  an  accurate  account  of  this  important  section  of 
literature,  and  will  be  very  welcome.” 

Prof.  Anderson,  of  the  University  of  Wisconsin,  ‘‘finds  it  very  interesting 
and  valuable,  and  done  in  a scholarly  manner,”  and  strongly  recommends  it  for 
use. 

Says  the  Boston  Daily  A dvertiser  : 

“ Scholarly  studies  of  this  kind  have  great  literary  and  historical  value ; and  the 
general  interest  felt  by  educated  persons  in  the  old  German  heroes  and  in  the 
fascinating  tales  of  the  North  will  make  this  book  of  Mr.  Dippold’ s very  welcome 
to  a large  circle  of  readers.” 

Says  the  New  York  Graphic  l 

“ * The  Great  Epics  of  Mediaeval  Germany  * is  a very  opportune  and  exceed- 
ingly interesting  book,  — opportune  because  of  the  prominence  which  the  work  of 
Richard  Wagner,  Mr.  Tennyson,  and  Mr.  Swinburne  has  of  late  given  to  tales 
which  find  their  source  in  these  mediaeval  legends,  and  interesting  mainly  because 
of  their  character  and  position  in  general  literature,  yet  also  to  a considerable 
extent  because  of  the  way  in  which  they  are  here  outlined  by  Professor  Dippold. 
The  epics  are  given  partly  in  prose  and  partly  in  verse,  the  English  renderings  of 
the  German  being  the  work  of  Professor  Dippold. 


Terms  for  introduction  given  on  application.  Specimen  copies  to  teachers 
for  introduction , at  a discount  of  one-third  off  from  retail  prices , mailed 
on  receipt  of  the  money.  If  the  book  ordered  is  unsuited  to  wants , return, 
and  the  price  will  be  refunded.  We  do  not  send  copies  free. 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY, 

Boston. 


JETTY  C 


INTER  LIBRARY 


Old  wood  to  burn , old  wine  to  drink , 
Old  friends  to  trust , oldbooks  to  read. 

jfranh  Saffron. 


Number 


